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Father Sheeby was then placed on a horse between two of the dra- 
goons, and having exchanged a kind farewell with Mr. O’Callaghan, 
he turned bis horse, as did the soldiers, and the troop rode off. 
(Page 41.) 


THE 


FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


A TALE OF TIPPERARY EIGHTY YEARS AGO. 



By MRS. 


J^^SADLIER, 


iUTHOH OP THB “ BLA.KE9 AND FLANAGANS” — “ NEW LIGHTS’’ — 
“ BESSY CONWAY” — “ ELINOR PRESTON” — “ CONFED- 
ERATE chieftains” — “ OLD AND NEW” — 



AC., &C., AC. 



NEW YORK: 

. D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET. 


BOSTON 128 FEDERAL STREET. 


MONTREAL C— COB. NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIER STS. 

/ 


7 5^3 


-f 










Entered aceorditg to act of Congress in the year 1863,' by 
D. & J. SADLIER & 00., 

1b the Gerk’s Office of 'the District Court of the United States, for the 
Southern District of New York. 


/ 


* 


9 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


Would that “the fate of Father Sheehy” were 
only a legend — apocryphal, dim and uncertain — but 
alas ! it stands recorded on the page of history, and 
is inscribed in characters of blood on the hearts of 
the Catholic people of Ireland. It is one of the 
darkest and most revolting pages in the annals of 
any nation, and its memory hangs — a fearful shadow 
— over the hills and vales of Tipperary. The terri- 
ble struggle for and against Protestant ascendancy has 
long since ended, and the national religion — the 
religion which Nicholas Sheehy loved and practised, 
and for which he died — is again free to carry out its 
beneficent designs amongst the children of the soil ; 
the lawless doings of the poor, misguided White- 
boys, and the still more outrageous violence and per- 
secution of their enemies — their ferocious .and unre- 
lenting oppressors, have long been' transferred from 
the stage of life to the historic page ; but the doom 
of Father Sheehy — his noble resistance of oppres- 
sion — his generous defence of the rights of his poor, 


10 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


harassed, starving people — his genuine, unostenta* 
tious piety, and, more than all, his unmerited suffer- 
ings and ignominious death, are still remembered 
with intense affection by the descendants of those 
amongst whom he labored, and for whom he died. 
Dear to the heart of the Tipperary peasant is the 
memory of this devoted priest, and may we not sup- 
pose that it has often steeled that heart and nerved 
many a strong arm with yet greater strength when 
wreaking vengeance on the oppressors of his race. 
Vengeance is never justifiable, never to be excused, 
but it is at times extenuated in some degree by 
circumstances. 

Father Sheehy was just such a man as the Irish — 
the Celtic heart most loves — warm, generous, and 
utterly unselfish — sympathizing with the oppressed 
wherever found, and fearless in denouncing the 
oppressor; the whole beautiful framework of his 
character adorned and enlivened by fervent piety, 
and the genial, heaven-born flame of charity. His 
very faults endeared him the more to the people by 
whom he was surrounded, and to their posterity in 
our own day ; for they, indeed, “ leaned to virtue’s 
side,” and sprang, to some extent, from his real vir- 
tues. He was rash, and, it might be, reckless in 
exposing himself to danger — guileless he was and 
unsuspecting, and, therefore, incautiously regardless 
of the plans and plots of his powerful enemies. 
Had he possessed greater discernment of character, 
and practised even ordinary caution, he might have 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


11 


escaped, at least with life. And yet^when we come 
to consider the all but omnipotent power of his 
enemies, their ferocious hatred of the old faith and its 
ministers, and the unhappy state of the country at 
the period in question, we must conclude that noth- 
ing short of a miracle could have saved the ill-fated 
priest. 

Father Sheehy was horn at Fethard, in the county 
Tipperary. His parents were in easy circumstances, 
and connected with several of the most respectable 
Catholic families of the county. While yet in his 
early childhood, Nicholas was sent to France for his 
education, it being then a capital crime in those 
Penal Days for a Catholic gentleman to employ such 
teachers at home as he -could alone entrust with his 
son’s tuition. Catholic education was forbidden 
under the most severe penalties, so that the gentry, 
who alone had the means of doing so, were reduced 
to the necessity of sending their sons to Louvain or 
St. Omers, Salamanca or Valladolid. Of that time 
well might Davis sing : 

“ Oh ! weep those days, the Penal Days, 

When Ireland hopelessly complain’d 
Oh ! weep those days, the Penal Days, 

When godless persecution reign’d j 
When, year by year, 

For serf and peer. 

Fresh cruelties were made by law, 

And, fill’d with hate. 

Our senate sate 

To weld anew each fetter’s fiaw,” 


12 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


Nicholas Sheehy early manifested a desire to em* 
brace the priestly state, and while still young was 
admitted to Holy Orders. Alas ! little dreamed the 
prelate who anointed his head with the consecrated 
oil that it was one day to be severed from its trunk 
by a public execution, and to moulder away, on the 
summit of a pole, a spectacle of joy and exultation 
to the arch-fiends of the ascendancy ! And just as 
little thought the sanguine, light-hearted youth that 
he was destined to fall beneath the sword of justice. 
But what do I say justice ! no — let me not so far 
prostitute that sacred word as to apply it to the 
fell practices, the nefarious arts of which he was 
the victim. None, in a word, could have foreseen 
Nicholas Sheehy’s end on the day of his ordination, 
when he stood before the altar in the vigor and the 
bloom of youth, his fine oval face beaming with the 
consciousness of that mental power which he was 
then devoting to the service of his Maker — his young 
heart glowing with the love of God, and with charity 
towards all mankind. Yet had any one been able to 
draw aside at the moment the veil which overhung 
futurity, in all probability the new-made priest 
would not have shrunk from contemplating his 
fate — his martyrdom. 

It was only a limited, and very small number of 
priests who were allowed to exercise their priestly 
functions, and as they were altogether insufficient 
for the spiritual wants of the people, hundreds of 
zealous young priests continually braved the terrors 


THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 


13 


of death and torture to bestow on the poor, suffer- 
ing Catholics the consolation of religion. Of this 
number was Father Sheehy, at least for several 
years after his ordination, during which time he had 
been repeatedly “ caught in the act,” that is to say, 
administering the sacraments or saying Mass, or, 
perchance, instructing the people in the doctrines 
of their religion. He had been arrested each time 
and formally tried, but, by some means or other, had 
as often escaped conviction. He was subsequently 
appointed to a parish by his bishop, to the great de- 
light of his parishioners, to whom he had already 
endeared himself by his firm assertion of their rights 
on every occasion. He was ever the friend of the 
oppressed, and the bountiful benefactor of the 
poor to the full extent of his limited means, and as 
gratitude is a prominent trait in the genuine, unso- 
phisticated Irish heart, it was no wonder that Father 
Sheehy wielded a powerful influence over the sur- 
rounding peasantry. 

But unfortunately for himself the same qualities 
that made him so dear to the poor, persecuted Ca- 
tholics excited in a corresponding degree the hatred 
of their oppressors, the rabid Orange magistrates 
and landowners of the county. These men, amongst 
whom were numbered, to their shame be it said, 
several ministers of the Church by law established, 
were banded together in an unholy league for the 
avowed purpose of maintaining the Protestant 
Ascendancy, and forcing their unhappy tenants to 


14 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


pay tlie exorbitant rent they choose to demand, to- 
gether with tithes, church-rates, “ minister’s money,” 
and various other assessments imposed on the people 
for the support of the English Church in Ireland. 
All these were wrung from a stariring peasantry — 
the Catholic gentry were awed into silence by the 
fearful enactments of the Penal Code, still in operation, 
and if, perchance, any one of them manifested the 
slightest desire to assist his oppressed brethren, it 
■was forthwith construed in^o “ a treasonable act.” 

Goaded to madness by their accumulated wrongs 
and sufferings, the people began to associate secretly 
for purposes of self-defence, and also (we cannot 
deny it) for revenge. It was their only resource — 
so they believed — there was for them neither law 
nor justice — they were starving— trampled on and 
outraged in every possible anff impossible way, and 
they sternly banded themselves together, resolved 
to make common cause against the common enemy. 
Il^ad it not been for the exertions of the Catholic 
priesthood, there is little doubt but the whole coun- 
try would have become one scene of anarchy and 
bloodshed, for the people were athirst for vengeance, 
and conscious that from their rulers they had no- 
thing to hope. Yet these very priests ■were accused 
of fomenting rebellion. They were hunted from 
place to place, and, when caught, treated as the 
vilest criminals, in many cases put to an ignominious 
death. 

Father Sheehy, then, had long been both feared 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


15 


and detested by the Orange Magistracy of the day. 
He was looked upon as a troublesome man, a dan- 
gerous man, because he feared not to advocate the 
cause of the poor, and because his character for 
high-souled generosity and unselfish devotion en- 
deared him to all the country for miles and miles 
around. Many an attempt had been made, as I have 
already shown, to get him out of the way, but 
Heaven had so far preserved him from the machina- 
tions of his enemies. Things were in this position 
when the Earl of Drogheda was sent down to the 
South in command of a large force, and established 
his headquarters in a place that has since become 
famous on another account, for 

“ ’Twas in the town of nate Clogheen 
Where Sergeant Snap met Paddy Carey,” 

that the warlike head of the house of Moore en- 
sconced himself for the purpose of watching the 
Whiteboys.* 

On the very night after Lord Drogheda’s arrival 
at Clogheen, when the tired soldiers were fast asleep, 
and even the sentries aS they paced their rounds 
could scarcely keep their eyes open — when the 
silence of midnight reigned unbroken in the gloom 
of a moonless night, wild, reckless men were gather- 
ing in the neighborhood of the village, each group 
and individual as they met exchanging the pass- 
* So called, as I suppose most of my readers are aware, 
from the fact of their weariug white shirts over their clothes in 
their nocturnal meetings and expeditions. 


76 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


word of the night, and greeting each othei with the 
secret grasp of sworn brotherhood. And why this 
midnight assemblage t why the low, hoarse threats 
that were echoed from mouth to mouth, and the 
stern expression that might be seen even through 
the gloom of night on every lowering brow ? Oh ! 
there was little need to ask, for the terrible white 
shirts, and the blackened faces, and the murderous 
weapons — guns and pistols, scythes and pitchforks — 
all denoted a fearful purpose — and that purpose was 
a night-attack on the newly-arrived British troops. 

Some hundreds of men were assembled, evidently 
of the very lowest classes, judging by their language 
and deportment. They already far outnumbered 
the soldiers within the town, and still their number 
was increasing, little straggling parties of two and 
three and four dropping in at every moment. In 
the fierce excitement of the hour, and the increasing 
consciousness of strength and power, men began to 
lose their caution, and threats loud and deep were 
heard on every side. 

“ By the Lord Harry 1^’ cried one gigantic pea- 
sant as he brandished a huge pitchfork, “ we’ll bum 
the town to ashes or we’ll ferret the red-coats out 
of their holes. If they haven’t put their heads 
in the noose this very day my name’s not Darby 
Mullen ! Come on, boys ! we haven’t a minnit to 
lose ; there’s work enough for us afore mornin’ !” 

Before a foot had moved in obedience to this 
order (for Darby was a man high in authority amongst 


THE FAFE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


n 


the Whiteboys) a hand was laid on the speaker's 
arm, and a deep voice spoke close to his side “ Darby 
Mullin, whither would you go ? — what is your pur- 
s pose?” 

Darby started as though stung by an adder. 
“ Why, God bless my soul. Father Doyle, is it you 
I have here ? How did you get so near me ? How 
did you get in, at all, without the white shirt or the 
black face 

“ Oh ! as to that,” replied the priest, “ the men 
seemed all to recognize me as I passed through the 
crowd, notwithstanding the darkness. But I ask 
you again, what is your purpose ?” 

“ Why, then, that I mayn’t do an ill turn, your 
reverence, but we’re goin’ to do a civil thing,” re- 
turned the man evasively. 

“ But what is it ?” persisted the priest who knew 
all too well that some desperate object was in view. 

“ Nothin^ in the world wide, your reverence, only 
to pay Shaun Meskill’s* respects to the gineral in the 
town bey ant, an’ to give him an’ his men the wel- 
come they deserve from us. That’s all. Father 
Doyle, as I’m a livin’ man this blessed night.” 

“ Blessed night !” repeated the priest sorrowfully. 
“ Ah, my children, my brethren,” he went on in a 
subdued but most impressive tone, “ you may thank 
God that I discovered your intention in time to pre- 
vent its execution, for I know you will not go 

♦ This was the name by which the Whiteboys spoke amongst 
themselves of their organization. 


18 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


against my bidding, when I tell you to return quietly 
to your homes. Alas ! what a change has been 
wrought in you by suffering and oppression when 
you could delibei*ately steal on sleeping men — even 
though they were your greatest enemies — and murder 
them in cold blood ! I know you might easily over 
oome these troops, with your superiority of num- 
bers, your weapons and your sternness of purpose, 
taking them, moreover, unawares — but then you 
could not, or would not stop there. Your passions 
once aroused a fearful massacre would follow, and 
many of yourselves would lose your lives, whilst all 
who survived would be branded on heart and bro w 
as murderers — the jails throughout the country 
would be filled to overflowing with doomed 
wretches, and your enemies would rejoice in yoar 
having criminated yourselves beyond forgiveness 
No, my poor fellows ! do not this foul thing ! 
Stain not your souls with this heinous crime, which, 
so far from amending your condition, would but 
make it an hundred times worse. Be advis^ by me 
and return to your homes. To-morrow you will re- 
joice for having obeyed me !’* 

A murmur of dissatisfaction ran through tht' 
crowd. * 

“ Ay ! that’s always how it is !” growled Darby, 
who evidently spoke the feelings of his comrades, 
“ they’ll never let us have our own way ; if they 
did, its altered times we’d have, for we’d drive the 
red-coats an’ the rascally landlords, an’ the parsons 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


19 


an’ the procthors into the say. I tell you, Father 
Doyle, we’ll not be said by you this time !” 

“ But I command you as a priest of the Lord not 
to commit this black, cowardly crime !” 

“ Ay !” shouted more than one hoarse voice, as if 
the speakers were glad to catch hold of any feasible 
excuse for evading the obnoxious command ; “ ay ! 
but you’re not our priest — there’s none of the Ard- 
finnan boys here the night, an’ Father Sheehy, long 
life to him! isn’t to the fore to prevent us. An’ 
maybe if he was atself he. wouldn’t say again 
us 1” 

“I tell you,” replied the priest, “I left Father 
Sheehy not half an hour since — he is somewhat in- 
disposed or he would have been with me here, but 
it was he who informed me of your intentions and 
begged me to hasten hither. Thank God 1” he fer- 
vently added, “ thank God I I am not too late !” 

Meanwhile the crowd had been thickening more 
and more, and, whether by accident or design, had 
moved considerably mearer the town. This the 
priest saw, and placing himself on the road right in 
front of the ringleaders, he extended his arms, 
towards the people, his back being turned towards^ 
the village. 

Once more I command you,” he cried with thrill- 
ing solemnity, “ and adjure you by the love you^ 
bear your country and your religion, to turn back 
while yet your hands are unstained with blood ! Do- 
what you propose to do and the curse of God shall fall 


20 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


heavily on you and yours; do my bidding, and 
you will have my blessing and the blessing of 
God !’» 

A backward motion of the crowd was suddenly 
perceptible. Wild and lawless as the poor fellows 
were, there was not one who did not shrink from the 
dread alternative proposed by the priest, that of 
disobeying him and incurring God’s anger. For a 
moment there was a sullen murmur of disapproba- 
tion ; then grumbling voices were heard reproach- 
ing the priest with having come between them and 
revenge. But Father Doyle saw that he had gained 
his point and silently awaited the result. Very soon 
the crowd began to diminish — white shirts were seen 
through the darkness straggling over the common 
in all directions, and in half an hour from his ap- 
pearance amongst the Whiteboys, Father Doyle 
stood alone on the midnight waste, with hands 
clasped and head bowed down, and tears streaming 
from his aged eyes. 

“ Thanks be to Thee, O God !” he murmured, 
thanks that Thou hast permitted me to save these 
poor unhappy men from the commission of a crime 
which would only render their miserable existence 
more wretched still. When, O my God ! when wilt 
Thou vouchsafe to lighten their heavy load ? When 
shall their faithfulness be rewarded and their temp- 
tations become less grievous? how long are they 
still to suffer — how long, O Lord ! how long ?” And 
then the old man slowly turned and retraced his 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


21 


steps to the house where he had left Father Sheehy 
in bed. 

When Father Doyle related the foregoing scene, 
his brother-priest raised himself quickly on his arm. 
“ Well! I am thankful to God and to you,” he said, 
‘‘ that you have succeeded — and yet — and yet if ever 
men were warranted in taking the law into their 
own hands, it would boi these very men ! I declare 
to you, friend I” he added warmly, “ I can hardly 
blame them, for I believe they have shown more for- 
bearance than any people ever did before under the 
same circumstances. From my heart I pity them, 
and I would willingly lay down my life to better 
their condition.” 

“Nobody doubts it, man, nobody doubts it,” re- 
turned Father Doyle with a good-humored smile. 
“ But now,” he added, “ you must lie down and be 
still. I’ll go and look for a bed in some other part 
of the house. Good night, and God bless you !” 

A few days after, on a raw cold evening, as the 
rector of the parish, the Rev. John Hewitson by 
name, reclined luxuriously in an easy chair before 
his parlor fire, sipping occasionally the contents of 
a beautiful silver tankard which stood on a small 
table at his right hand, his burly form encased in a 
dressing-gown of rich brocade, and his round red 
face glowing with the fumes of the generous wine 
and the heat of the coal fire before him, a tap was 
heard at the door, and instantly his own servant 
ushered in a woman wrapped up in an old grey cloak 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHREHY. 


the hood of which was thrown over her head so as 
almost to conceal her face. 

Dropping a low curtsey and a “ sarvent, sir !” she 
remained standing near the door, which the servant 
still held half open in his hand, while the minister 
regarded the intruder with a scowling glance of in- 
quiry. At last he spoke : “ I say, Lanty, who is 
this person 

“ The divil a know I know, sir ! askin’ your reve- 
rence’s pardon, for it’s mighty careful she is about 
lettin her face be seen. She says she has private 
business with your reverence.” So saying Lanty 
closed the door with a waggish leer on his thin 
sharp features. 

“ W ell, my good woman,” said the portly rector, 
“ what is your business with me? You had better 
be quick, as my time is exceedingly precious !” 

“ I suppose your reverence has heard of the won- 
derful great meetin’ that took place the other night 
on the commons abroad,” began the woman in a 
bold, confident tone. 

“ Of course I have, but what of that ?” 

“ Why, nothing, plase your honor, only I thought 
you might be wantin’ witnesses for the thrials,” 

“Wanting witnesses 1” repeated the rector slowly, 
as he eyed the mufiled figure still more closely; 
“ why, yes, we are always on the lookout for res- 
pectable evidence, seeing that many undoubted cri- 
minals do escape in these unhappy days for want 
of evidence. Of course, my good woman, we are 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


23 


most anxious to procure witnesses — ^always provided 
they be of decent character. Mind that, I say !” 

“ To be sure, your reverence, to be sure ! I know 
it’s dacent witnesses you want, an’ that’s why I 
come to offer myself.^'* 

“ And who may you, be’,” inquired the rector, 
“ who are so willing to run the risk of telling the 
truth at a time when we can scarcely find one in- 
dividual bold enough to come forward and give 
testimony ?” 

“ My name is McCarthy, your honor’s reverence — 
Ann McCarthy, sir, an’ I’ll make -bould to say you’ll 
not get a betther witness in all Tipperary, for I 
wouldn’t be a bit dauntedif the judge himself was 
to question me on the table. Troth, I wouldn’t, 
sir, an’ it isn’t many could say that for them- 
selves.” 

“Well! well!” said Hewitson, cutting her self- 
laudation short, “ but against whom can you, or will 
you swear ?” 

“Why, to be sure. I’ll swear against any one you 
please” — but seing the rector frown she quickly 
added — “ the priest, sir, for one 1” 

“ The priest ?” cried the rector starting from his 
chair, “ what priest ?” 

“Ay! there it is — what priest does your rever- 
ence think it is ?” 

“ Sheehy — is it not ?” inquired the churchman in 
an eager tone, alternating between hope and fear. 

“Why, who else should it be, an’ plase your rever- 


THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 


once?— who else is at the bottom of all these 
doings ?” 

Hewitson grasped the bell with a trembling hand, 
and pulled it with nervous haste. Lanty was not 
slow in appearing, when his master ordered him to 
have the groom saddle a horse, and ride over with 
a message to Sir Thomas Maude. Lanty lingered a 
moment and contrived ,to get round in front of the 
woman, so as to have a view of her face, which .was 
now somewhat more exposed. One glance was 
enough, and with a slight nod, as though he said to 
himself, “ It’s just as I thought,” he was about to 
leave the room, when he heard his master say : 

“ So, Mistress Ann McCarthy, you can plump it 
home against him ?” 

“ Mistress Ann McCarthy !” repeated Lanty with 
a low, chuckling laugh, “ oh, then, the divil a bone 
of a McCarthy is in her skin. Why, your reverence, 
it’s Moll Duvka, that’s under the hood — sorra one 
else. Sure I got a peep at her face this very minnit, 
an’ I’d know her squint among a thousand. Mistress 
Ann, inagh! oh, then, faith, she’s takin’ your rever- 
ence to the fair, as she took many a one before now !” 

“Silence, you scoundrel I” cried his master an- 
grily, “ I suppose the decent woman has her reasons 
for concealing her real name. Go and do what I 
told you !” 

“ In coorse I will, sir !” and Lanty sidled out of 
the room, muttering, “ dacent woman ! wisba, then, 
what’ll the world come to, at last ?” 


THE FATE- OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


25 


“ And now, honest woman,” said the rector appa- 
rently oblivious of Lanty’s discovery, “ may I ask 
what it is that induces you to inform against this 
plotting priest ? Are you a papist ?” 

“ Wisha, troth,” was the answer, “ I don’t bother 
my head about religion one way or the other — all’s 
alike to me. But, for your honor’s question,” she 
hastily added, “sure they tell me you’re giy'm' fifty 
pounds and a new shuit from top to toe — that’s what 
I -call dacent pay 1” And the respectable witness 
that was to be perpetrated a knowing wink with 
her left eye. 

“ But I suppose you are aware, my good woman, 
that we have one witness already ?” 

“ Faith I do know it well, but he’s not worth a 
traneen. In coorse, it’s the omadhaun^ John Bridge, 
you mane — him that’s in for Whiteboyism; an’ I 
hear Mr. Bagwell got him to inform by the hardest 
of treatment. Sure his oath isn’t worth much, the 
creature !” 

“ I’m thinkin’ it’s worth as much as yours, Moll,” 
observed our friend Lanty, who, under pretence of 
stirring up the fire, had again made his appearance. 
“ Of the two, I think his is the best, fool an’ all as 
he is, for every one knows what makes you hard on 
the priest, an’ even if your charackter was betther 
than it is, people ’ill be sayin’ that it’s spite makes 
you swear, so your oath isn’t worth a button !” 

“ Why, what do you mane, you blackguard ?” 
cried Moll, as, throwing back her hood, she turned a 


26 


THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHT. 


pair of squinting eyes on Lanty. “ Haven’t you the 
diviPs own impidence to talk to me in the way you 
do ?” 

“An’ haven’t you the assurance of the same ould 
gintleraan to go up on a table an’ swear agin the 
priest — let him be as he may^ — when everybody 
knows that you did it for revenge ?” 

“ For revenge, Lanty ! how is that ?” inquired the 
rector, his curiosity a little excited. 

“ Why, your reverence, it seems Father Sheehy 
put her out o’ the chapel, or cursed her, or some- 
thing that way, on account o’ the bad life she led, 
an’ ever since she’s on the watch to do him an ill 
turn. Troth, sir, she’s no great shakes to bring up 
for a witness !” 

“ An’ what would his reverence expect, youlepre- 
haun ?” retorted Moll fiercely. “ Who would he get, 
do you think, to swear agin a priest, only some poor 
outlawed creature like myself If I’m not good 
enough for such dirty work as that, I’m not good 
for anything. So give me no more o’ your in\pi- 
dence, now, or the divil a swear I’ll swear ; an’ then 
his reverence, an’ Sir Thomas, an’ the rest o’ the 
gintlemen may go look for dacenter witnesses. On 
or off, Mr. Hewitson ? — an’ mind if I’m to do the 
business, sir, you must keep ould hatchet-face there 
out o’ the room while I’m in it, for he’s just talkin’ 
that way for contradiction — nothing else. He hates 
the priest as much as you do, but he wants to taunt 
me the ill-conditioned rascal.” 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEITY. 


27 


Lanty was accordingly dismissed, and Sir Thomas 
soon after coming in, the good news was speedily 
communicated to him, whereat he rejoiced exceed- 
“ for,” said he with a vinegar smile which 
admirably suited his long, lank visage, “for now 
we have this popish priest under our thumb; and 
if it be not our own fault he cannot escape us. I 
think, Hewitson, you had better place this worthy 
woman under arrest — if you have no objection,” he 
added, addressing the witness. 

“ Divil a hair I care where I am,” responded Moll 
carelessly, “ if you’ll only allow me enough of whis- 
key and tobaccy to pass the time. All’s one to Moll 
Dunlea, if she only gets the nourishment.” 

Being assured that she would have whatever she 
desired, Moll dropped a low curtsey, and then 
marched off between two servants who were de- 
puted to lock her up, while the two gentlemen, 
drawing their chairs near the fire, sat down to dis- 
cuss their brightening prospects over a fresh supply 
of claret. 

On the following day a small detachment of sol- 
diers was sent out in quest of Father Sheehy, but 
their search was, for the time, unsuccessful. He 
had said Mass that morning in his sister’s house, but 
long before the soldiers reached there he was con- 
cealed in a neighboring cottage, a quantity of straw 
being heaped against the door of a sort of cellar 
wherein he was placed. For many days the search 
was repeated, and as often did the generous, grate- 


28 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


ful peasantry succeed in hiding their beloved pastor 
from the all-piercing eyes of his persjecutors. They 
took it in turn to watch the motions of the soldiery 
when out on his trail, and the most ingenious stra- 
tagems were employed by them to screen him from 
discovery. Sometimes he narrowly escaped being 
oaught, for his haunts began to be known, and at 
last a proclamation was issued to the effect that any 
one who should henceforward harbor or assist him 
in any way, should be treated as an accomplice in 
his crimes. This threat made a fearful impression on 
the minds of the people, so that many began to 
shrink from lodging the persecuted priest, while he 
himself was unwilling to compromise their safety, so 
that he would remain whole days and nights hidden 
amongst the brushwood in the depth of a thicket — 
stealing at night to some friendly homestead to pro- 
cure refreshment. 

One evening he determined to make his way to 
the house of a farmer at the very extremity of his 
parish joining that of Ardfinan.. Intelligence had 
reached him that the farmer’s wife, a pious, good 
woman, was at the pcdnt of death, and though 
strongly urged not to go, he declared that nothing 
should prevent him from doing his duty. 

“No,” said he to his brother-in-law, Thomas 
Burke, “ Ally Boyce shall not die without the rites 
of the Church, if I can only reach her alive. Many 
a time has she ministered to my wants, and sheltered 
me from the enemy, since I have been a houseless 


THE FAFE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 2'y 

wanderer, and, with God’s help. I’ll not desert her 
now in her hour of need. God’s blessjpg be with 
you, Thomas,” and he wrung the outstretched hand 
with even unusual warmth, “ I won’t say good-bye 
to Kitty, for I know she’d be only trying to per- 
suade me not to go. Give her my love, anyhow, 
and should you never see me again in life, don’t for- 
get me in your prayers. So now here goes in God’s 
name I” 

“But, for God’s sake. Father Nicholas dear, let 
me go with you !” said Burke entreatingly, “ it’s 
wearing late, and you have a long road to 
travel.” 

“Not for the world, Tom, not for the world 
would I consent to what you propose. Remember 
your wife and children, and that, after God, your 
first duty is to them. Not a step farther, I insist 
upon it — if there be danger, I will meet it alone.” 
And gently pushing his brother-in law into the 
house, he closed the door, and making the sign of 
the cross upon his forehead and breSjSt, walked 
swiftly away through the deepening gloom of twi- 
light. The roads were deserted as he passed along, for, 
unless on a night when the Whiteboys held a meeting 
or went out on an excursion, not a soul ventured, or 
dared venture, to leave their homes without actual 
necessity. “ It is not very likely that the soldiers 
are about to-night,” muttered the priest to himself, 
“ and it is so far best, for I see the lady-moon begins to 
show her fair face over yonder hill. I must strike 


30 


THE FATE of FATHER SHEEHY. 


off through the field, however, for I am doubly ex- 
posed to danger on the high road.” 

He had already got within a mile of the house, 
when, forgetting his caution for a moment, he sprang 
over a stile and dashed along a narrow bridle-road 
or boreen which he knew to be a short-cut to 
Boyce’s house. The road was shaded on one side 
by a high hawthorn hedge, and he had only ad- 
vanced a few paces when he was made sensible of 
his indiscretion by the sight of three men who stood 
close to the bushes where the shade was deepest 
He was moving on, without appearing to notice 
them, when one of them called out : 

“ Why, then. Father Sheehy, is it yourself that’s 
in it ? What’s your hurry this fine evening ?” 

“Maybe his reverence is goin’ over to the Glebe 
to pay a visit to the rector,” said another jeeringly. 

“ Well ! at any rate, it’s like he can take time to 
give us his blessin’,” suggested the third, and all 
three laughed uproariously. 

“Really, my friends, you have the advantage of 
me,” said the priest, still hastening on, but two of 
the men quickly seized him by either arm, whil6 the 
third walked close behind. 

“ Fellows I” s^id Father Sheehy aloud, “ what is 
the meaning of this ? whither would you take me ?” 

“ Oh ! then, you’ll soon know that, priest darlin’ ! 
we’ll not keep you long in the dark about it. But 
stir yourself, man alive, or we’ll have to give you a 
touch of what you won’t relish. If you knew but 


THj: FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


31 


all, we’re going to pay you great respect entirely, for 
in a few minutes we’ll introduce you to one o’ the 
king’s officers. It’s truth I tell you, sir, though you 
don’t seem to b’lieve a word of it — an’ sure that’s 
no wonder, anyhow, for it’s an honor no popish priest 
could ever expect.” 

Father Sheehy was silent — he was meditating on 
the chances of escape, and looking eagerly for an 
opportunity to make a bold attempt. His captors 
had struck into the high road, and were rapidly 
approaching a ruinous building which had once been 
a comfortable farm-house. The moon was now high 
in the firmament, and her silvery light shed a glory 
over the sleeping landscape, imparting a spectral 
look, however, to the shattered walls and frameless 
windows of the ruin. 

“Wouldn’t that be a fine place, now, for the ras- 
cally Whiteboys to hide in ?” said one of the men 
in a low voice, as though he really had some mis- 
givings on the subject. “ But, then, they’re too 
cowardly to come abroad in the moonlight — they’re 
like the owls, an’ only^ venture out in the dark.” 

By this time th^y were full in front of the ruins, 
the gaping doorway of which was dark as a church- 
yard vault, when a sort of commotion was heard 
within. 

“ Shaun Meskill forever ! — up, boys, and at 
them !” shouted a hoarse, suppressed voice in Irisk, 
and at the well-known sounds the ruffians who held 
the priest turned pale as ashes. A loud noise was 


32 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


heard within the building — a man in a white shirt 
stood in the dark doorway, and, as though terror- 
* stricken by this confirmation of their dears, the fel- 
lows flung the priest from them, and exclaiming, 
“ there he is, if it’s him you want !” they ran ofl* as 
fast as their limbs would carry them, nor ventured 
once to look back till they came up with the party 
of soldiers who were out in search of the priest. 
Had they cast a look behind they would have seen 
nothing to justify their fears, and the loud laugh 
that echoed from the ruin as a stalwart arm drew 
the priest in, would perchance have lessened their 
apprehensions. 

“ Why, how is this inquired the priest, seeing 
that the man who had appeared at the door was en- 
tirely alone : “ I thought you had a party here.” 

Sorra one but myself, plase your reverence,” 
said Jemmy Boyce, for he it was; “ I went out, you 
see, sir, to watch for you, bekase poor Ally’s so 
eager to see you, an’ I hadn’t gone very far when 
what should I see but yourself cornin’ walkin’ along, 
betune two of Maude’s meij, an’ another of them 
right at your back. Och, wasn’t I terrified at the 
sight, for I knew there was a party of sojers a’most 
within call, an’ I hadn’t time to go look for help. 
As God would have it, I thought of this ould build- 
in’, when I seen the way they were takin’ you, so I 
crep along betune hedges and ditches till I got in 
here. Then thinks I to myself ‘if I could only 
make them b’lieve that there’s a lot o’ the boys in 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY, 


33 


the place, they’d be sure to run for their lives,’ so, 
bedad, your reverence, I peeled off every stitch to 
the very shirt, and that itsdf, an’ I put it on over 
the rest o^ my clothes, and then I roused the shout 
as you hard yourself, an’ I made such a racket that 
they must a’ thought there was a houseful o’ men 
in it ; sure enough the Orange rascals did run for 
it — thanks be to God that I got your reverence safe 
out o’ their clutches.” 

“ An’ many thanks to you, too, my trusty friend!” 
said the priest with deep emotion, as he shook the 
sinewy hand of the honest farmer, “ May the Lord 
requite you here and hereafter for the service you 
have rendered me this night. N ow let us hasten to 
your poor wife, and God grant we may be in 
time !” 

Boyce quickly took off the shirt which had 
proved so useful, thrust it into his pocket and then 
hurried home with the priest. To their gi’eat joy 
they found Ally still alive, and Father Sheehy had 
the happiness of administering to her the last solemn 
rites of religion. Two hours after she breathed her 
last, and the priest was carefully concealed. In all 
the grief of the afflicted family, his safety was not 
forgotten. 

What was the rage and mortification of the out- 
witted captors, when, coming back to the ruin a few 
minutes after, with the whole detachment of sol- 
diers, they found only the bare walls — not a vestige 


34 THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 

of priest or whiteboy was to be seen — the ghostly 
ruin was silent all and tenantless, and the discom- 
fited guides, in addition to the loss of the reward, 
were forced to bear the scoflfe and jibes of the 
soldiers. 



THE Fate of father sHeehy. 


35 


CHAPTER II. 

THE CHURCHYARD OF SHANDRAGHAN. 

There was in those days a lone house standing 
close by the old churchyard of Shandraghan — and it 
may be there still for aught I know to the contrary 
— with its windows looking out into “ the lone place 
of tombs.” In Father Sheehy’s time it was occu- 
pied by a farmer named Griffith, who was a kind- 
hearted, upright man, though a Protestant. The 
priest had at one time rendered him a signal service, 
and Griffith was not the man to forget it. He had 
beenknown to say that Father Sheehy was a wronged 
and persecuted man, at the same time expressing a 
wish that he could do anything to asgist him. His 
good dispositions were speedily put to the test, for, one 
evening, about an hour before sundown, as he sat 
alone by the fire smoking his pipe, who should come 
in but the priest himself, disguised as a mendicant, 
with a huge wallet slung over his shoulder. 

“ Good evening, Billy,” said the pretended beggar, 
as he defied his tattered cawheen^ and flung his bag 
on the earthen floor. “ How is all with you !” 

“ Why, then, indeed, good man ! you have the odds 
of me,” said Griffith, regarding the stranger with a 
quiet smile, “ but we’re all well, thanks to you for 


36 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


askin’. Sit down an’ take an air o’ the fire this 
could evenin’. Did you travel far the day ?” 

“ I see you don’t know me, Billy !” said the priest, 
sitting down by the fire, and spreading his hands to 
catch the genial warmth. “ Did you ever see' this 
face before?” and he turned so that the light fell 
full on his care-worn features. 

Griffith started and drew back involuntarily. 
“ Why, as I’m a livin’ man, it’s Father Sheehy him- 
self” 

“ Sure enough it is I” replied the priest with a 
mournful smile, “ you see I’ve got the bag* at last.” 

“ But what in the world brings you here ?” asked 
Griffith in great agitation ; “ don’t you know they’re 
not far off that’s seekin’ you night and day. I seen 
the sojers passin’ not twenty minnits agone, an’ they 
may be back this way before long.” 

“ I know all that, Griffith, an’ it’s the very reason 
why you see, me here. I have so often baffled my 
’ pursuers, that they’re getting to be too sharp for me; 
they don’t leave a Catholic house unvisited, and they 
destroy all before them ; so I must put an end to this 
state of things, for I cannot bear to see others suffer 
on my account. I will give myself up — but not to 
these vultures who are thirsting for my blood. If I 
can only conceal myself a few days, till I can write 
to Dublin and get back an answer, I will then dis- 
burden my friends of a heavy charge. You are a 
Protestant — they will not suspect you of harboring 

* That to say, turned beggar. 


- THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


3T 


! me — Griffith ! will you afford me a shelter? I know 
I you are incapable of being tempted by the reward 
offered for my apprehension, and you see I have full 
confidence in your kindly feelings towards me.” 

“ An’ so you may, sir, so you may,” said Griffith 
rising from his seat and extending his hand to the 
priest, while the glow of honest satisfaction suffused 
his sun-browned cheek. “You’ll find, Father Sheehy, 
that you didn’t lean on a rotten stick — and that Wil- 
liam Griffith never forgets a good turn, if it was the 
Pope himself that did it. But where in the world 
can I hide you ? I’d just as soon the children didn’t 
get sight of you, if it could be helped.” 

The fact was that the house did not afford a single 
!| hiding-place, and the out-houses were not to be re- 
i| lied on, unless the whole family were in the secret, 
i They were then standing at a window, overlooking 
th^ churchyard, and the priest suddenly said : 

“ Is there not an old vault yonder in the grave- 
: yard, belonging to some family now extinct. I have 
, heard people say so. Could I not hide there iji the 
I daytime — as I have only two or three days to pro- 
vide for — and you might probably be able to admit 
' me into the house at night, without your sons know- 


; ing anything of it.” 


“ The plan’s a good one, sir !” said Griffith in a 
' melancholy tone, “ but it would be an unnatural place 
; to hide in. It’s a fearful thing for the livin’ to be 
I' shut un amonsT the dead, — an’ I don’t like it, at all, 



38 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 

“ Ay, that’s the question — If it could be helped. 
But I see no other prospect for concealment, and as 
I have never willingly or knowingly inju-red living 
man, I have no reason to shrink from abiding a 
day or two in the dwelling of the dead. Better 
there than in the hands of Maude or Bagwell’s 
emissaries.” 

“ Well! well! sir, I suppose we can’t do better; 
and, then, I can let you in here every night till you 
get something to eat an’ drint, an’ a few hours’ com- 
fortable rest. But the boys will soon be in — sit 
down, sir, if you please, tilj I get you a bit to 
eat.” 

Having made a hasty meal of oaten cake, eggs 
and milk. Father Sheehy rose. “ It is now almost 
dark,” said he, “ and I must retire to my' hiding- 
place for . a few hours, till your family are gone to 
bed. Just show me the door of the^ vault,” he 
added with a forced smile, “ and leave me to intro- 
duce myself to its inmates. Come,^ come, Billy, 
why do you stare so, and shake your head ? Don’t 
you know very well that the mouldering dead are 
safer company for a doomed man like me than many 
of the living ? ha ! ha !” 

His laugh was wild and unnatural, and it made 
Griffith shudder. He spoke not another word, but 
beckoned the priest to follow, and led him out by 
the back-door, and round the end of the house into 
the graveyard. “ There’s the door, sir !” he said, 
pointing to a low, narrow door, which, being a little 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY 


39 


lower than the surface of the ground, was reached 
by a few steps, green and mossy from long disuse. 
The door was old and crazy, and merely rested 
against the aperture. The priest descended the 
steps with a single bound, and lifting the worm- 
eaten door aside looked into the vault. But he 
could not see even its extent, for within it was dark 
as midnight. Even the brave bold heart in Father 
Sheehy’s breast shrank from entering there at that 
hour. “ Go,” said he to Griffith, who still lingered, 
“ I can easily secrete myself now in the dim light 
from any one passing ^he rOad by keeping clo^e to 
the wall. I need not intrude on the peaceful slum- 
bers of the dead till the morning light compels me, 
owl-like, to seek the darkness. But go into the house, 
my worthy friend, for I hear some one coming down 
the road.” 

In this i^trange retreat the persecuted priest re- 
mained some four or five days, sitting all the day 
on a large stone which he found ih the old vault, 
reading his breviary, as well as he could, by the dim 
light which came through the wide chinks of the 
door, meditating the while on the lives of the first 
Christians in the Catacombs, and combating his na- 
tural aversion to the place by the remembrance of 
the gteat St. Anthony, voluntarily retiring to the 
tombs, in order to baffle his spiritual enemies 

“And I, too,” he communed with himself, “I, too, 
may profit Ify a brief sojourn in this dreary place. 
It will prepare me for the approaching time when I 


40 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY 


shall be called upon to enter the world of spirits. 
Let me, then, endeavor to profit by the occasion, 
uand meditate on the eternal truths while only the 
dead are near — the silent, long-forgotten dead. 
Placed, as it were, between the two worlds — a link 
between death and life — let me consider how I stand 
before God — how I am prepared to account for my 
stewardship at the bar of Divine Justice.” 

Engaged in such meditations as these he heeded 
not the flight of time, nor sighed for a return to the 
busy, bustling world. But the affairs of men — even 
his own — were moving on. He had written a letter 
to Mr. Secretary Waite, offering to give himself up 
provided his trial might take place in the Court of 
King’s Bench, in Dublin, and not in Clonmel, where 
the power of his enemies was supreme and despotic. 
An answer, accepting his proposal, came, addressed 
to his brother-in-law, who brought it himself to 
Griffith. That evening Father Sheehy ventured to 
go home with Burke, took an affectionate leave of 
his weeping sister, and set out, accompanied by his 
brother-in-law, for the house of Mr. O’ Callaghan, a 
magistrate of high standing and unblemished repu- 
tation. To him Father Sheehy surrendered himself, 
-on condition that he was to be sent to Dublin; and 
Mr. O’Callaghan showed himself well worthy of 
the trust reposed in him, for he treated him with 
all the respect due to his priestly character and his 
long sufferings. He sent to Clogheen for a troop 
of horse to escort him in safety, fearing to trust the 


THE FATE* OP FATHER SHEEHY, 


41 


Orange constables by whom every magistrate was 
then surrounded. 

When all was in readiness for Father Sheehy’s 
departure, his brother-in-law came up to him, and 
said in a low voice, as he wrung his hand at parting: 

“ Your cousin, Martin O’Brien, is going up to 
town to-day. He will remain as near you as he pos- 
sibly can, so as to render you any little service that 
may be in his power.” Then raising his voice he 
added : “ May the Lord bless you, Father Nicholas, 
and deliver you from the hands of your enemies !” 

, “ Amen !” responded the priest. “ Tell Catherine 
to be sure and pray for me— and you, too, Thomas! 
you, too, for it is written that ‘ the prayer of the 
righteous availetl^muck.’ God be with you till I see 
you again, and if we do not meet here, we shall meet 
in heaven — at least I hope so.” 

Father Sheehy was then placed on a horse between 
two of the dragoons, and having exchanged a kind 
farewell with Mr. O’ Callaghan, he turned his horse, 
as did the soldiers, and the troop rode off. The 
priest pulled his hat over his brow, and was speedily 
lost to surrounding objects, his thoughts being intent 
on the probable issue of his approaching trial. But 
his trust was in God, and however it might end, he 
resolved to regard the decision as coming from the 
Great Judge of all, the Disposer of events, and, there- 
fore, to be received with entire submission. It was 
early in the morning when the prisoner and his 
guard left Mr. O’Callaghan’s house, and at eight 


42 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


o’clock in the evening they stopped before ^he 
arched gateway of the Lower Castle Yard. The 
officer’s summons was answered by a sentry from 
within, and very soonj/he heavy gates were thrown 
open, the troop rode into the yard, and Father 
Sheehy was duly delivered to the proper authori- 
ties, “ to be kept till called for.” As the doors of 
the prison closed, he thanked God that he was not 
in Clonmel jail, but at the same time he made an 
offering of himself to God, ^ying : 

“ O Lord ! do with me what thou wilt ! Thou 
knowest what is best for me !” 

Leaving Faj^her Sheehy immured in that prison 
where he was not destined to remain long, let us go 
back some months to bring forward an occurrence 
too little known, yet honorable^ alike to a j^nblie 
functionary of those days, and the people by whom 
his upright conduct was so well appreciated.* 

At an early period of these agrarian disturbances 
in the South, the government of the day had ap- 
pointed a special commission to examine into the 
real state of the case, and to try the offenders 
(whether real or supposed) who had been taken into 
custody. Many of the most respectable Catholics 
had been tried. Father Sheehy amongst the number, 
and if the whole country was not plunged in mourn-, 
ing by the loss of many useful lives, it was not the 

* Plowden relates this fact in his History of Ireland, and 
Dr. Madden mentions it on his authority in his Historical In- 
troduction to the Lives and Times of the United Irishmen. 


THE TATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


43 


fault of the zealous Orange magistrates, or their for- 
midable phalanx of witnesses, for certainly they all 
did their duty and did it well — so well, in fact, that 
they overshot the mark, and made the conspiracy 
into which they had entered so broadly manifest 
that the whole proceedings fell to the ground. This 
was owing in great measure to the strict sense of 
justice and keen legal acumen of Sir Richard Acton, 
Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, who had 
been sent down to preside on the occasion. The 
uprightness and impartiality of that excellent judge 
were indeed remarkable and worthy of all praise, at 
a time when partizanship ran so high that it was 
deemed a crime to show any sympathy for the suf- 
ferings of the people, and when every trial of a po- 
litical character was expected to end in the convic- 
tion of the accused. But Sir Richard Acton was 
far above the gross prejudices of the time — when 
seated on the bench he diverted himself of all party 
antipathies or predilections, and really appears to 
have given Ms decision on the actual merits of the 
case before him.* 

Many of the accused were, therefore, honorably 
acquitted, and they being, as may be supposed, the* 
most respectable in character, and prominent in posi- 
tion of the Catholic community, the rejoicing was- 
great all over the country. The people were, in. 
fact, transported with joy, for hitherto, in all such 
* Dr. Madden aptly styles Sir Richard Acton “the Fletcher* 
of his day.” 


44 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT. 


cases, prosecution was sure to end in conviction, 
and conviction in banishment or death. 

It was morning, a mild, fair morning, and the sun 
had already ascended half-way towards his meridian 
height, when a carriage-and-four, containing Sir Rich- 
ard Acton and a barrister who had accompanied 
him from town, drove but of Clonmel, and moved 
rapidly away on the Dublin road. About two miles 
from Clonmel the coachman suddenly. pulled up and 
informed Sir Richard that there was a great crowd 
of people on the road before them. 

“ I don’t know what they’re about, my lord,” said 
the man, “but they’re a wild-looking set, and I 
don’t half like their appearance. I’m afraid they’re 
some of the Whiteboys, your lordship.” 

“ Well, suppose they be,” replied the Chief Jus- 
tice, “ you need not look so terrified. Prom what 
I have seen of them, they are far from being the 
bloodthirsty savages they are represented. Drive 
•pn, Robin !” 

The man obeyed for the moment, but had only 
•gone a short way when he stopped again, 

“ Please your lordship, I’m afraid of my life to go 
on. Your lordship. knows very well how they hate 
the law and all belonging to it, and it’s short work 
they’ll make of us all if they know who’s in the car- 
riage. As sure as your lordship’s sitting there, 
they’ll tear us limb from limb, and they’ll fall on me 
ifirst that’s outside !” 

Sir Richard and his companion laughed heartily 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 45 

at the doleful countenance of^the coachman, yet 
though neither showed any symptoms of fear, the 
barrister deemed it prudent to see what the gather- 
ing meant. 

“ With your permission, Sir Richard, I will walk on 
before the carriage and see what they are about. If 
they have any evil intention in awaiting ns here, it 
must be you who stand in the greatest danger, and 
it may be well for you to keep out of sight. It is 
true these Tipperary Whiteboys have no great love 
for the law or its administrators, and I like not this 
assemblage, evidently awaiting ws.” 

“ Nay,” said the Chief Justice calmly, “ if their in- 
tention be hostile we cannot now escape them, and I 
will not consent that you should expose yourself 
even to possible danger on my account. Somehow, 
I cannot persuade myself that there is danger — but 
we shall' soon know how the matter stands. Drive 
on, Robin I drive on, I say ! no one will harm 
you !” 

“ Oh Lord, Sir Richard, here they are !— they’re 
coming towards us, as I’m a sinner. They’ll kill us 
all, my lord ! they will, they will ! — oh ! then, wasn’t 
I the unlucky man to undertake to drive a judge’s 
carriage through this blood-thirsty Tipperary !” 

He had scarcely spoken when the horses were 
stopped by the brawny arms of the tall mountain- 
eers, and many loud voices were heard on either 
side of the carriage. “ Isn’t it Judge Acton that’s 
within ?” Robin was scarcely able to keep his seat 


46 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


on hearing this supposed confirmation of his worst 
fears. He sat pale and trembling on the box, the 
whip and the reins fell from his nerveless grasp, and 
he could only murmur some inarticulate words in 
reply. 

“Yes,” said the Chief Justice, putting his head 
out of the window, “ I am Sir Richard Acton, — what 
is your business with me ?” 

“ Business ! oh, then, sorra business in the world 
wide, your lordship’s honor, only to thank you from 
our hearts out for what you did in the town athin. 
We daren’t say what we wanted to say there, please 
your lordship, bekase the sojers ’ud be set on to 
keep us quiet, and the magistrates, bad cess to them ! 
’ud be making it out trayson^ if we raised our voices 
at all, at all. But we can’t let you lave Tipperary 
without thankin’ you, and lettin’ you know that we’ll 
never forget your goodness to us all !” 

Sir Richard turned to his companion with a bene- 
volent and, moreover, a gratified smile on his face. 

“ I told you so — I told you they were not likely 
to do us any harm. But I did not tell you of this 
overflowing gratitude, for I could not possibly have 
anticipated any such thing.” 

Turning again to the peasants who stood hat in 
hand round the carriage- windows : “ My very good 
friends, you take me somewhat by surprise. , I have 
done nothing that entitles me to such an expression 
of gratitude. As a judge I have simply done my 
duty, favoring neither one side nor the other.” 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY, 


47 


“ An’ that’s jist what we want to thank you for. 
We want no favor, but only a fair thrial. Justice, 
my lord, justice is all we ask, and that’s what your 
lordship gave us. May the great God in heaven 
have mercy on you when you stand before Him to 
be judged! And we’ll pray for you every day we 
have to live, an’ wef*!! tache our little ones to pray 
for you, too, bekase you gave law an’ justice to the 
people.” 

“ Ay }” cried one taller than the rest, being, in- 
deed, our acquaintance. Darby Mullin, “if judges 
an’ magisthrates was all like his lordship there 
needn’t be any Whiteboys in Tipperary, or any- 
where else for that matther !” 

Here some won^en, crushing their way through 
the excited multitude, held up their little children, 
crying : “ There he is now ! look at him, alanna ! 
for maybe you’d never see the likes again barrin’ 
you see himself — that’s the judge that gave us fair 
play, astore 1” 

“May the blessin’ o’ God be about him an’ his, 
now an’ for evermore 1” 

“ Fall back there all o’ you !” roared a stentorian 
voice, and a space being cleared, the horses were in 
a twinkling taken from the carriage, and notwith- 
standing Sir Richard’s earnest remonstrance, the 
brawny fellows laid hold of the shafts, and drew the 
vehicle along with amazing swiftness, while the hills 
around re-echoed with the shouts of the warm- 
hearted, grateful peasantry : 


48 


THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 


“ Hurrah for the English judge that wasn’t afeard 
or ashamed to do us justice !” “ Acton forever !” 

“Three cheers more, boys! jist to show his lord- 
ship an’ the other jintleman what a Tipperary cheer 
is !” The three cheers which followed might well 
have made the Bagwells, and the Maudes, and the 
Hewitsons turn pale and tremble, while it brought 
the tears to the eyes of the upright judge. 

When at length the carriage stopped, and the 
horses were once more put to. Sir Richard presented 
a bank-bill of considerable amount to the first who 
appeared at the- window. But the man drew back 
almost indignantly. 

“Take it, friend!” said the judge in a kindly tone, 
“ just to have you all drink my health this raw chilly 
morning !” 

“No, no, your lordship,. not a rap we’ll take! As 
for dr inkin’ your health, we’ll do it, plase God ! at 
our own expense. Now you may dhrive on!” he 
said to Robin who had long ago recovered his self- 
possession. “ You were daunted at first, my lad ! 
we could see that, but you know nothing at all 
about us, or you wouldn’t. You’re not a Tip — 
that’s plain !” 

“Farewell, then!” said Sir Richard, taking off 
his hat and bowing courteously to the crowd, as 
the carriage rolled away. “You have taught me to 
love and reverence your virtues, and to make allow- 
ance for your faults I” 

Another enthusiastic cheer rent the air — the 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


49 


crowd fell back on either side, and the carriage 
rolled through, the people gazing after it as long as 
it remained in sight, pouring out fervent blessings 
on its owner. 

“ I tell you,” said the Chief Justice, as, sinking 
back on his seat he drew a long breath, “ I tell you, 
my good sir, there is a fearful moral to be drawn 
from this scene, illustrative as it is of Irish charac- 
ter. Would that every judge in the land could 
have witnessed it !” 

“Truly these poor people are vilely traduced,” 
said the barrister, “ and their rulers see them only 
through a most distorted medium !” 

“Well, Robin!” said Sir Richard to his coach- 
man when they stopped to have the horses fed, 
“what do you think of the Tips? Not quite so 
blood-thirsty, after all, eh!” 

“ Faith, your lordship, they^re not half as bad as 
the bad name they’ve got. I’ll be hanged if ever I 
stand by and hear them ill-spoken of again, poor 
fellows ! Why, to hear the gentlemen’s servants in 
Clonmel, you’d think the Whiteboys were born 
divils ! — might I make free to ask your lordship was 
there any Whiteboys among them people on the 
road?” 

This question was put with an earnestness which 
brought a smile to the calm, grave face of the Chief 
Justice, and made his companion laugh heartily. 

“ Why, Robin,” said the lawyer, “ that is rather a 
puzzling question even for a judge I — how on earth 


50 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


do you suppose your master could distinguisli a 
Whiteboy from all others 

“ Well, really, Robin, my good fellow !” said Sir 
Richard with his usual gentleness, “ I can bcarcely 
answer your question, but I am inclined to think that 
by far the greater number of those men were White- 
boys.” 

“ And yet they drew owr carriage,” said he of the 
whip, musingly, “ though we were sent down to try 
them. Well, I protest I don’t know what to make 
of, them for Whiteboys !” 

“ Just this, Robin !” said the barrister with a good- 
humored laugh, “just this, that the devil himself is 
not so black as he’s represented. But he off now 
and see to the horses — there’s a good fellow, for we 
have a long road between us and dinner !” 

“ I say. Sir Richard,” asked the lawyer when they 
wene again seated in the carriage after “ stretching 
their limbs” by a short walk while the horses en- 
joyed their feed, “ what is your opinion of the priest 
Sheehy ? What manner of man do you take him to 
be?” 

“ Just the sort ©f man who cannot be tolerated by 
the petty tyrants who are determined to keep the 
people under their heel. He is a man of ardent 
temperament, — bold and reckless as regards his own 
safety, but keenly alive to the wants and sufferings 
of the people and their manifold wrongs. I take him 
to be a high-souled, warm-hearted man, but impru- 
dent withal, inasmuch as he takes no pains to con- 


THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 


51 


ciliate those who have it in their power to do him 
.and his much mischief. The consequence is that the 
magistrates both fear and hate him.” 

A new subject was started of perhaps more imme- 
diate interest, and the Tipperary trials were dropped 
for the time. 

#«#### 

Shortly before Father Sheehy had given himself 
up, a fresh commotion was raised in the neighbor- 
hood of Clogheen, by the sudden and mysterious 
disappearance of Bridge, the crown-witness. This 
man — it will be remembered from Moll Dunlea’s 
conversation with the rector — had himself been ar- 
rested for Whiteboyism, and being known to all the 
country round as a simple, half-witted creature, the 
magistrates had judged him a fit subject for a crown- 
witness. He was harmless as a child, and wholly 
incapable of either conceiving or executing a ma- 
licious project of any kind. He repeatedly denied 
all knowledge of the affairs of the Whiteboys, but 
his denial went for nothing, as the magistrates had 
determined that he should give information. They 
scrupled not to torture the poor creature under pre- 
tence of making him tell the truth, till they finally 
succeeded in forcing him to swear against certain 
individuals whose names they suggested to him. 
Father Sheehy was one of the first mentioned in 
these dictated depositions, so that Bridge’s testi- 
mony went to corroborate that of the amiable and 
estimable Moll Dunlea. 


62 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


All of a sudden, however, Bridge disappeared, 
and his fate became an inscrutable mystery to the 
whole community. Man, woman and child talked 
of the event, but none could offer any feasible solu- 
tion of the enigma. The simple peasantry were 
inclined to rejoice that Bridge was not forthcoming, 

for,” said they to each other, “ it happens well for 
poor Father Sheehy. God keep him out o’ the way, 
till the thrials are over, anyhow, for the crature hasn’t 
the sense but to swear whatever they bid him, an’ 
we all know how it ’ud go.” 

“Ay, but what in the world has come of him, 
Paddy ?” asked our old acquaintance Darby Mullen. 
“ God knows I’d be sorry for anything bad to happen 
him, for he was ever an’ always a , quite, harmless 
crature. Do you think would he have the craft to 
hide himself a-purpose for fear o’ swearing what he 
knew wasn’t the truth ? Myself thinks he hadn’t so 
much cuteness in him.” 

“ God knows. Darby, God knows,” replied Paddy 
Carroll. “ But anyhow it’s as well he’s not to the 
fore — even on your account and he added sig- 

nificantly. 

Darby nodded assent, and reached his pipe to 
Paddy, inviting him to “ take a dhraw” in a tone 
which indicated a desire to change the subject. 

Once escaped from the clutches of his enemies. 
Father Sheehy’s natural goodness of heart and his 
frank afiability of manner failed not to produce their 
effect on those about him. He was at first lodged 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


53 


in the provost in the Lower Castle Yard, but after 
a cursory examination his innocence was so apparent 
to Mr. Secretary Waite (already prepossessed in his 
favor by his letter of capitulation, so to speak) and 
to Town-Major Sirr,* that he was at once freed from 
all restraint, and permitted to go anywhere within 
the city limits. Major Sirr went so far as to become 
security for his appearance at the approaching trial. 

“ I will never believe,” said the good-natured 
Town-Major, “ that such a man as he is guilty of the 
crimes laid to his charge. I have had some expe- 
rience of those over-zealous worthies in the South 
who trump up plots thick and fast to keep their 
hands full of business, and I swear to you (of course 
it goes no farther) that in nine cases out of ten it is 
they who deserve trial and not the poor miserable 
devils of countrymen whom they goad to madness 
with their oppressions and exactions. But that is 
not our alFair — ^it is for the judges to look after that. 
This priest, however, must not be kept in prison, for 
I see his innocence as plain as I see your face. So 
I’ll be his security for appearing when called on — ^let 
him out on my responsibility.” 

“Agreed!” was Waite’s answer, and Father Sheehy 
was speedily informed that until such time as his 
trial came on, he was at liberty to go where he 

* This Major Sirr was father to him who exercised such wan- 
ton cruelty on the noble but unfortunate Lord Edward Fitz- 
gerald. A striking verification, surely, of the old proverb that 
many a good father has a bad son. 


64 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


pleased, provided he did not quit the precincts of 
Dublin city. His word of honor was then taken that 
he would appear when called, and with many ex- 
pressions of heartfelt gratitude to the high-minded 
gentlemen who had dealt so generously by him, he 
withdrew, almost a free man. 

******* 

Nearly eleven months had passed away before Fa- 
ther Sheehy was brought up for trial, the case being 
put back from time to time under one pretence or 
another. During all that long period. Father Sheehy 
had been supplied with funds by his friends in the 
country, whom he had the comfort, moreover, of see- 
ing from time to time, and especially his favorite 
cousin, Martin O’Brien, who, in fact, remained almost 
constantly with him. 

But at length the time came when his fate was to 
be decided, and the summons was given him in the 
little chapel of SS. Michael and John, where he had 
just said Mass. A silent bow was his only answer 
8;S he turned and walked into the sanctuary where 
he knelt in prayer a few moments before the Blessed 
Sacrament, and then arose and approached O’Brien 
who awaited him in the aisle. 

“Do you see that, my boy?” he asked with as- 
sumed gaiety, when they had reached the street, 
“ there’s a notice from the Court that my trial will 
come on on the 10th — just four days from now. So 
it is, you see : ‘ long looked for comes at last,’ as the 
old saying goes.” 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


55 


“My God ! how unfortunate!” cried O’Brien much 
agitated. “ But you must not appear, Father N'icho- 
las ! indeed you must not 1” 

“ How 1” said the priest turning sternly on his 
cousin, “ how! is it you, Martin ! that would counsel 
such a deed of shame ? Would you have me betray 
the confidence of the generous man who voluntarily 
answered for my appearance ? For shame, Martin 
O’Brien I Certainly I will appear, in God’s holy 
name, and leaving to him the issue.” 

“ But I have just got news from home that will 
increase your danger, and that very consider- 
ably.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“A report has recently been set afloat about 
Clogheen that Bridge was made away with, in fact 
murdered !” 

“ Good God !” exclaimed the priest, and a mo- 
mentary paleness overspread his face. “ Good God I 
can that be true ? Poor simple fellow ! could any - 
one be found wicked enough to lay violent hands 
on a creature so guileless and so simple?” 

“ I know not, my dear sir,” replied O’Brien, “ but 
much I fear that the report will come hard on 
you.” 

“ On me !” cried the priest in unfeigned surprise, 

“ why, what on earth has it to do with meV'‘ 

“ Much — too, too much ! — see you not. Father 
Nicholas, that whatever may have become of Bridge 
your enemies have got up this report, so that in 


56 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


case you are now acquitted of this ridiculous charge 
of treason, they can still retain you as being acces- 
sory to the murder, whether real or supposed ?” 

“ No, no, O’Brien, no, no !’' replied the priest 
slowly and decisively, “ you cannot persuade me 
that even they, bad as they are, could be guilty of 
such atrocious wickedness. Your friendly anxiety 
for me makes you too apprehensive of evil.” And 
then he changed the conversation by inquiring after 
his sister’s health. 

But O’Brien renewed his request, and during the 
time which intervened before the trial, he urged his 
reverend friend again and again to make his escape 
while it was yet in his power, representing to him, 
and with some show of justice, that self-preservation 
is a sacred law of nature, and that it was his duty 
to adopt the only means thaV remained to him of 
eluding the vengeful pursuit of his remorseless ene- 
mies. 

‘‘You are not bound,” said he, “before God or 
man, to throw yourself on destruction, which you 
will assuredly do if you stand your trial, for my 
heart tells me that this strange and sudden report 
of Bridge’s murder is a hellish device to ensure your 
conviction. Innocence will not save' you should 
their wretched informers swear against you as being 
cognizant of the murder. As to the amount of Ma- 
jor Sirr’s security we can easily make it up amongst 
us and repay him with thanks, which we will do 
were it to beggar the whole connection. Go, then, 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY, 5t 

in the name of God, and thus defeat the malice of 
those who are thirsting for your blood !” 

“ I cannot do it, O’Brien ! I dare not do it ! The 
voice of conscience and the dictates of honor alike 
command me to remain and confront my accusers : 
tlie former tells me I am innocent — innocent of any 
crime either against society or th^lawsof this realm 
— while the latter reminds me that my word is 
pledged and cannot be forfeited, end the matter 
how it may. Go, Martin ! urge me no more, if you 
value my peace of mind, for I cannot and will not 
do what you ask. I will not shrink from a trial as 
though I were indeed guilty, and you know, more- 
over, as well as I do, that here, at least, I shall have 
a fair chance.’’ 

“ Ay, but that devilish rumor — that’s what I fear, 
and not the present indictment. If they bring such 
a charge as that against you, and prove it home, as 
they will — then God have mercy on your soul, for I 
know they’re fit for anything, and will carry their 
point by fair means or foul.’ 

“ Nonsense, man, nonsense !” said the priest with 
a faint smile, “ your fears magnify the danger, and, 
what is more, my dear fellow, you are a little un- 
charitable, I fear, in regard to these functionaries. 
For my part, I believe the report was only got up 
to intimidate me, but if so, they have missed their 
mark. I fear them not) for ‘ the Lord is my deliv- 
erer,’ and ‘whom shall I fear?’ He is the great 


58 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


Disposer of events — be it done unto me according 
to Hia will !’* And he reverently raised his hat and 
looked upwards through the shifting clouds to the 
blue sky. 

O’Brien sighed deeply, but made no answer. 


I 



THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 


59 


CHAPTER III 

LAW AND JUSTICE. 

The 10th of February came on clear and cold, 
and, before many of its hours had passed away, the 
Rev. Nicholas Sheehy was tried for treason and 
treasonable practices. The charge was a serious 
one, no dou'bt, and even the stoutest heart might 
well have quailed under the circumstances, but 
Father Sheehy looked with a smiling eye on the 
imposing array of white- wigged lawyers — the 
earnest-looking occupants of the jury-box, as they 
crowded forward to see the prisoner; nay, even 
the grave and awful dignity of the three judges 
failed to blanch his cheek or dim his eye. That 
cheek had much of the freshness of youth, and that 
clear blue eye was full of life and spirit, while his 
fine aquiline nose gave token of the decision which 
marked his character. The trial went on, evidence 
on both sides was sifted to the bottom, and it is but 
fair to say (what respectable historians have already 
said) that the whole proceedings were marked by 
the strictest impartiality. Several hours were oc- 
cupied in the examination of the witnesses, and 
very often as some glaring inconsistency was dis- 
covered in the evidence for the prosecution, or 
some shameless bribery was brought to light. Major 


60 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


Sirr, who sat near the judges, would address a whis- 
pered remark to the gentleman who sat next to him. 
Throughout the whole trial the judges treated the 
Tipperary dignitaries with something very like con- 
tempt, to the great discomfiture of those ultra-loyal 
persons, and when at seven o’clock in the evening. 
Chief Justice Gore rose to address the jury, he said 
it gave him no ordinary pleasure to assure them 
that the Court was unanimous in believing Mr. 
Sheehy innocent of the charge brought against him. 
The jury retired and very soon returned to their 
box with a verdict of Not Guilty. No sooner was 
the word pronounced, than one wild, enthusiastic 
cheer rang out from hall and gallery, and was 
caught up by the multitude without. Father 
Sheehy manifested not the smallest change of coun- 
tenance, but stood leaning against the railing of the 
dock with folded arms and head slightly raisedj in 
the attitude of listening. But the drama was not 
yet concluded — the Chief Justice arose to address 
the prisoner. At that moment Father Sheehy 
looked towards one of his chief opponents who 
had come all the way from the neighborhood of 
Clogheen to be present at the trial, and he saw on 
his face an exulting smile which boded him no good. 
His eye wandered on to the Chief Justice, and he 
was convinced that there was something more to 
come, for the face of the judge had undergone a 
serious change. After a momentary pause he said : 
“ The jury, as I expected, has acquitted you of the 


THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 61 

charges contained in the indictment, and by this 
time you should have been free, had not a fresh 
obstacle presented itself — one, too, involving the 
most serious consequences.” He paused a moment, 
and then exchanged a few words in a low voice 
with the other two judges — a death-like silence 
pervaded the court — the silence of intense anxiety 
and expectation. All eyes were turned on the 
priest ; his head had fallen on his chest and he 
seemed lost in thought, but no shadow of fear was 
seen on his face. The judge spoke again, and Fa- 
ther Sheehy raised his head to listen: “Nicholas 
Sheehy ! it is now my painful du^ to remand you 
to prison — you are charged with being accessory to 
the wilful and deliberate murder of John Bridge !” 

A cry of horror escaped from almost every indi- 
vidual present, and again were all eyes turned on 
the unfortunate prisoner now evidently doomed — 
doomed to undergo every species of persecution, and 
deprived of all chance of escape. 5© '^as pale, but 
his eye was still undimmed, though a tear was evi- 
dently forcing its way. After a moment^s silence he 
bowed low to the Chief Justice, then to each of the 
other two, and lastly to the jury. 

“ My Lord Chief Justice !” he said at length, “this 
new accusation — terrible as it is — does not at all sur- 
prise me. Knowing the men from whom it comes, 
and their persevering enmity towards me, I had every 
leason to expect that they would be prepared to fol- 
low up my acquittal here — if acquitted I should be — 


62 THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 

with some other charge. Such a charge as this no 
one who knows me could have anticipated, but God’s 
will be done ! I accept this grievous humiliation as 
coming from His paternal hand, and will only pray 
Him to turn the hearts of those who persecute me. 
I am thankful to this worshipful court, my lord, and 
to the gentlemen of the jury for the impartiality with 
which my trial has been conducted, and will ever 
pray that the righteous Judge of all may deal mer- 
cifully by those who have not shrunk from doing 
justice to an oppressed and persecuted man. I am 
now ready to submit to whatever fate awaits me, al- 
ways declaring that if John Bridge were indeed mur- 
dered, which God forbid ! I have had neither act or 
part in, nor knowledge of, that execrable deed. I am 
well aware that this declaration avails nothing before 
a Court of Justice, but I owe it to my reputation as 
a man, and still more as a priest of the Most High 
God, and that God, who seeth the heart, knoweth 
that I do not prevaricate. I have done, my lords !” 

“ Mr. Sheehy 1” replied the humane Chief Justice, 
“ it is not for me to express an opinion of any sort 
in this matter, but this I will say that I have seldom 
performed a more painful duty than that of remand- 
ing you to prison. Mr. Sheriff,” he added, address- 
ing that functionary, “ you will take the prisoner at 
the bar again into custody, until such time as he be 
brought up for trial.” 

The officer bowed — so did the prisoner, but a 
shout of execration rose from the multitude within 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


63 


and without the building. “ A plot ! a plot was 
the general cry, and a violent commotion was seen 
to agitate the crowd, Father Sheehy turned before 
he left the dock, and made a warning gesture with 
his hand. Speech was not allowed him, but the 
people understood his wishes, and showed their re- 
spect for him by the profound silence which followed, 
a silence which was only broken by a murmur of 
pity and indignation. If any were present who be- 
lieved him guilty of this new crime, they took good 
care to conceal their opinion for not one dissentient 
voice was heard. No sooner had the prisoner 
quitted the ddck and the judges withdrawn from the 
bench, than the fierce shout was heard : “ A groan 
for Maude, He witson and Bagwell ! — the priest-hunt- 
ing, blood-thirsty magistrates of Clogheen ! — there 
goes one of them, boys — let him hear how well the 
Dublin lads can hoot such rascals !” The groan, or 
rather a series of groans and hisses which followed, 
made Bagwell right glad to escape to his carriage 
which was in waiting, while his black heart over- 
flowed with venom to hear the wild, and oft-re- 
newed cheer which ascended from many thousand 
voices at the mention of Father Sheehy’s name. 
And again and again the 'cry arose of “ Sheehy for 
ever — down with the Tipperary magistrates !’* until 
Bagwell thought it would never cease, or that he 
cou4d never get fast enough out of hearing. “ But 
we’ll have our revenge for this,” was' his consoling 
reflection, “ by the soul of King William ! but weUl 


64 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


have our day, and a black day it will be for him, the 
popish villain ; that^s as sure as my name is John 
Bagwell. His Dublin mob shan*t save him — no, by 

H , nor this white-livered Gore, if he was again 

sitting in judgment — but he shan’t, for we’ll lose a 
fall for it, or we’ll have him brought to Clonmel. 
This trying the fellow in Dublin will never do, and 
I knew that all along.” 

Unfortunately for Father Sheehy, his enemies did 
succeed in having him brought to Clonmel for trial, 
and he was only taken from Newgate, to be trans- 
ferred to the jail of his native county, under the es- 
cort of a party of dragoons. It was night when he 
again entered Clonmel, and it was by torchlight 
that he passed those gloomy gates, which were to 
him the portals of fate. They closed behind him, 
and as the echo died away along the dreary walls, 
a cold shiver shot through all his body, and for the 
first time in his life his heart sank within him, for 
he felt as though the icy hand of death were already 
grasping him, and that the warm living world was 
shut out forever. But his depression was only mo- 
mentary. “ Why should I despair !” he said to him- 
self— “ they cannot deprive me of heaven, unless 
through my own fault, and the greater my suffer- 
ings and humiliation here the greater will be my 
reward hereafter, provided God gives me the grace 
to sanctify them by consecrating them to I^m. 
Courage, my soul ! heaven lies beyond the dark por- 
tals of death — let us not shrink from the passage, 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


65 


since Christ himself has set us the example. He 
died, then why should we fear to die ?’* 

His reflections were cut short by the jailer, who 
roughly bade him follow, and he was very soon the 
tenant of a cold, damp cell on the first floor of the 
prison. Again did his heart sink, but he quickly 
shook off his despondency, and betook himself to 
prayer. 

Ho sooner was his arrival in Clonmel made known 
than the whole country was thrown into a feverish 
excitement. Some were rejoiced — that is to say, 
the few who lived on the hope of seeing the Catholic 
party entirely prostrated and the Protestant ascend- 
ancy permanently established — but by the great 
mass of the people the event was hailed with all the 
wildness of lamentation. It is very questionable if 
any one individual there was who really believed 
Father Sheehy cognizant of Bridge’s murder, if 
murdered he indeed was, but it is quite certain that 
many affected to believe it. 

But the priest was not alone in this new misfor- 
tune, for it was the policy of the ruling party to get rid 
of the most influential Catholics, either by fair or 
foul means, and the disappearance of Bridge, the 
crown witness, was a glorious opportunity for in- 
volving many of them in one common ruin. At first 
he had only foi companion one Edward Meighan, 
who was accused of having given the fatal blow, 
acting on the orders of the priest. The witnesses 
on this occasion were the estimable Moll Dunlea, 


66 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


John Toohy, who had been recently liberated from 
Kilkenny jail (where he w^as confined for horse 
stealing) for the express purpose of giving informa- 
tions against Father Sheehy and Edward Meighan, 
and the third was the vagrant, John Lonergan, a boy 
of some sixteen years of age, whose character was 
of the very worst description. 

Father Sheehy was nearly a month in Clonmel 
jail before his trial came on, and during that time 
he bore his sufierings with amazing fortitude and 
even cheerfulness. He was not allowed to receive 
any visits, but it chanced that a gentleman of his 
acquaintance entered the inner yard of the jail while 
the prisoners were taking their daily walk, and saw 
the unfortunate priest sitting on a lone bench against 
the wall, being unable to w^alk. Being there on busi- 
ness with one of the turnkeys the gentleman ven- 
tured to approach and ask him how he did. 

“ Tolerably well in health, I thank you,” was the 
reply, “ but you see I am a cripple.’ 

“ How is that, sir ?” 

“ Why, look at my legs,” he said with a smile, 
pointing to the bandages by which they were envel- 
oped, “ they are swollen to the most unnatural size, 
and fearfully lacerated by the cords wherewith they 
were tied under the horse’s belly, as I came here 
from Dublin.” 

“ God bless my soul. Father Sheehy ! is that the 
case ?” asked the other, in unafiected astonishment, 
while the tears stood in his eyes. 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


67 


“ To be sure — to be sure it is,” exclaimed the pri- 
soner with a gay laugh, “ but take care— don’t let 
any one here see you sympathizing with a priest — 
it would be the ruin of you, my dear sir, indeed it 
would. God bless you and go away now, but a 
word in your ear before you g6 — we’ll defeat these 
fellows yet, with God’s help !” 

“ That you may, I pray God,” was the fervent 
answer, as the gentleman turned away. The pri- 
soner struck up a snatch of an old hymn tune, which 
was his custom when he wanted to ‘bother grief,’ as 
the Irish phrase has it. For years after, the clear, 
sweet tones of his fine voice, singing, or rather 
humming, seemed to ring in the ear of him who had 
just parted from him, and the remembrance was 
painful in the extreme, when connected with the 
tragical end of Father Sheehy. 

The very few who were permitted to see the 
priest, saw him only in the presence of the jailer, 
and they were all most urgent in their entreaties 
that he would call on a number of respectable wit- 
nesses, which he could easily do, to prove that he 
was in no way cognizant of Bridge’s murder. So 
great was the power of his enemies in Clonmel and 
the adjacent towns that no lawyer could be found 
to undertake his defence, fearing to incur the wrath 
of his persecutors. A Dublin attorney had, how- 
ever, been engaged to conduct the defence, and he 
urged the necessity of summoning all the witnesses 


68 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


whose evidence could be relied on, but ta all these 
representations Father Sheehy laughingly replied : 

“ Why, what need is there of troubling so many — 
will not two or three respectable witnesses be quite 
sufficient ? There I have Mr. Keating of Turbrid to 
prove that I slept at his house on the night that 
Bridge is said to have been murdered; and what 
can be clearer than that? Will any jury — even an 
Orange packed jury — dare to take the oath of a 
strumpet, and a noted thief, in preference to that 
of a gentleman of high standing and unblemished 
character? And I have Mr. Herbert, too. Both 
of these are independent ; and where is the use of 
exposing these poor, warm-hearted people who are 
so willing to brave danger on my account, when 
these two are quite enough? You tell me that 
scores of my parishioners are able and willing to 
prove me innocent ” 

‘‘And not only that,’’ interrupted his cousin, 
O’Brien, “ but there are two or three able to prove 
that no such murder was ever committed. Bridge 
having taken leave of them, for the purpose of going 
abroad somewhere.” 

“Well!” said Father Sheehy, “that may be, but 
it will be enough for me to establish the fact that I 
knew nothing of the murder, and the fewer wit- 
nesses I have it will be all the better, for I cannot 
consent to let so many persons draw down on them- 
selves the vengeance of these oppressors, whose power 
equals their malice. No, no, O’Brien I — no, no !” 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


69 


“ There now,” returned O’Brien bitterly — “ that 
was just the way you served me when I wanted you 
to quit the country before your last trial came on — 
it would have been well for you if you had taken 
my advice.” 

“Not so, Martin, whatever comes of this I do 
not regret having -then awaited my trial — it was my 
duty to do so, and we must never be deterred from 
doing our duty.” 

O’Brien was here abruptly informed that it was time 
for him to go, and there the conversation ended. 

It really seemed as though a doom rested on 
Father Sheehy, for he could not be persuaded to 
avail himself of the means within his reach for the 
establishment of his innocence. It is true, his notions 
were of the noblest and purest nature — being un- 
willing, as we have seen, to expose any one without 
absolute necessity to the hatred and malice of his 
own persecutors j but still we cannot help wishing 
that he had listened to reason, and permitted the 
people to come forward and give their just testi- 
mony. Still it is very doubtful whether his wit- 
nesses would have been allowed to give their evi- 
dence, for it is now matter of history that during 
the whole time of his trial the court-house was sur- 
rounded by treble lines of armed soldiery, who suf- 
fered none to go in or out without a pass from thd 
magistrate. From the day before his trial, too, the 
streets of Clonmel were constantly patrolled, both 
day and night, by parties of armed men, headed by 


70 THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY 

certain of the vile Orange magistrates themselves— 
lodging-houses and taverns were kept under the 
closest surveillance^ so that the friends of the unfor- 
tunate priest were not even permitted to manifest 
the slightest sympathy — nay, they dared not venture 
to converse on the subject. In short, the whole 
town was in the hands of the magistrates and their 
unprincipled satellites, and pale dismay was on the 
face of every one who favored the Catholic party, 
or was interested in the fate of those who lay thus 
at the mercy of the common enemy. The crown- 
witnesses were handsomely entertained at the bar- 
racks in Clonmel. There Toohy cracked his jokes 
over his steaming whiskey-punch, furnished from a 
neighboring tavern, and the vagabond Lonergan 
grinned approval, while Moll Dunlea was in her 
element, romping and carousing amongst the sol- 
diers. She had taken up with one in particular 
whose name was Brady, and he being a nominal Ca- 
tholic either felt or affected to feel an interest in the 
fate of Father Sheehy. One evening when they 
were all assembled in the guard-room — it was the 
evening all but one before the trial — Brady suddenly 
asked Moll whether she did not feel a little squeam- 
ish about swearing against the priest. 

“Squeamish,*’ cried Moll, snapping her fingers 
contemptuously, “ the devil a that I care for all the 
priests from shore to Shannon. An’ if it goes to 
that amn’t I doin’ what’s right — isn’t it fittin’ that 
the guilty should suffer — gainsay that if you can.” 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


71 


Guilty,” repeated Brady, incredulously — “ you 
know as well as I do, Moll, my sweetheart, that the 
priest is not guilty.” 

“ Who says so ?” cried Moll, starting to her feet, 
and shaking her clenched fist at the soldier, while 
her face grew livid with anger — “ who says that he’s 
not guilty ? — whoever has the impidence to say it, 
Moll Dunlea’s the girl that’ll soon give them the lie. 
I’ll prove it against a thousand — that I will — ay, an’ 
what’s more, he’ll hang for it, an’ I’ll have the plea- 
sure of seein’ him.” 

“Why, what harm did he ever do you, Moll? 
inquired the soldier in a coaxing tone, being desir- 
ous of reaching the bottom of the secret, though his 
motive was only that of curiosity. 

“ Harm !” said Toohy, taking up the word before 
Moll could speak, “ didn’t he order her out o’ the 
chapel — ay, faith did he, Jim ! — he put the dacent 
girl out, an’ cursed her into the bargain, because 
she wouldn’t give up a boy she was livin’ with at the 
time. Sorra a word o’ lie I’m tellin’, Jim. An 
now is it any wonder that she’d owe him a spite? 
an’ between ourselves, he was hard on me, too, 
though the dear knows I’m as innocent a boy as 
you’d see in ^ summer’s day — throth I am, an’ Jack 
Lonergan will tell you so as well as mysdf ” 

Lonergan answered this appeal by a sort of grunt 
that might have been construed either into denial 
or assent, but Moll cut short the conversation by 
calling for “ another glass.” 


t2 THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 

“ Where’s the use talking,” said she, “ it makes a 
body divilish dry; give us another glass, Brady, 
that’s the chat, let the priest, an’ the judges an’ all, 

go to the d 1, for all us. Hurra 1 that’s the raal 

stuff-r-here’s may we never have worse to drink!” 

It was a melancholy sight to look at that misera- 
ble woman, and think that on the word of such as 
she should hang the lives of men of high standing 
and unblemished honor. What a state of society it 
was when such a man as Father Sheehy, his cousin 
Edmund Sheehy, Mr. Farrell and Mr. Buxton, were 
condemned and executed on the evidence of such 
profligate wretches ! 

For a day or two before the trial no one was 
allowed to see either Father Sheehy or his compan- 
ions in misfortune, and though hundreds of friends 
crowded into the town, yet no one ventured to 
speak above his breath of that which engrossed the 
attention of all. On the morning of the trial Sir 
Thomas Maude and the two Bagwells were seated 
in the parlor of an inn adjoining the court-house 
engaged in conversation when Mr. Cornelius O’Cal- 
laghan made his appearance, and unceremoniously 
joined their company. This gentleman was well 
known to all three, but they had their own reasons 
for affecting reserve in his presence. 

“ Good morning, gentlemen,” said the new-comer, 
“ what news have you got here ? I hope my en- 
trance has not disturbed you.” 

“Not at all, Mr. O'Callaghan, not at all, sir,” 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY, 73 

replied John Bagwell, making room for him beside 
himself. “We are just talking over some matters 
of little importance.’* 

“ What sort of a calendar have we this time — 
pretty full I believe ?” 

“ Why, yes,- rather so — this Whiteboyism has de- 
moralized the whole country.” 

Mr. O’Callaghan smiled, and Maude continued : 

“ It is no longer safe for a gentleman, especially 
if he be a Protestant, to> live in this neighborhood ; 
these rascally papists are becoming quite savage on 
our hands. Don’t you think so ?” 

“ Why, really no,” returned O’Callaghan. “ Since 
you ask my opinion I must candidly tell you that 
Catholics have ever been, and still are, my very best 
neighbors, and even friends. I am one of those 
who do not believe the people to be half as bad as 
they are represented. N’ow, to go no farther than 
this case of Mr. Sheehy. I do not think there is a 
country in the whole civilized world where such a 
state of things could exist, save this unfortunate 
island of ours. The fact of it is, that unless the 
whole population of the neighborhood is in error, 
the man Bridge was no more murdered than I was, 
and if he were murdered at all, which I for one do 
not believe, I would stake my life for it that this 
unfortunate priest knew no more of it than did any 
of us. The thing is absurd, improbable, and if I am 
not altogether mistaken, this day’s trial will prove 
it go.” 


T4 THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 

“ On what authority do you ground your very 
decided opinion, Mr. O’Callaghan?” inquired Wil 
liani Bagwell, with a sly wink at Maude, “ for really 
it diifers somewhat from ours,” 

“ On what authority,” repeated O’ Callaghan, with 
honest indignation, for he well knew the men with 
whom he had to deal — why, on that of an intimate 
friend of my own, in whose house Mr. Sheehy slept 
Ihe whole of that night on which Bridge is supposed 
to have been murdered. Yes, gentlemen, and his 
testimony — undoubted as it must be — will put your 
crown witnesses to the blush, or rather those who 
employed them, for blushing is out of the question 
with them?'' 

An angry flush was on the cheek of Maude, and a 
taunting reply on his thin lip, when a person entered 
to announce that the judge was entering the court- 
house. 

“You’ll soon see what your opinion is worth !” 
said the baronet with a malicious sneer, as he passed 
O’ Callaghan on the staircase. “The unblushing wit- 
nesses may do as well as ‘ the intimate friend’ of 
Mr. Cornelius O’ Callaghan. Ha! ha!” His insolent 
laugh was echoed by his two worthy associates, but 
O’Callaghan did not condescend to answer. 

The court-house was crowded above and below, 
but it was for the most part filled with partizans in 
the Orange interest. Few, very few of the Catholic 
party were allowed to enter, while the others were 
brought in from all parts, in order to make it appear 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 75 

to the judge that public opinion was against the 
prisoners. The jury was to a man composed of 
rabid Orangemen, the officers of the court were of 
the same school, so that they had the game entirely 
in their own hands, and a fearful game they made 
of it. 

That very morning, about three hours before the 
trial commenced, the witnesses for the prosecution 
were separately visited by one of the magistrates 
muffled up in a large cloak. The visit over, the 
same personage had a long conversation with one 
of his brethren, and its tenor might be gathered 
from its conclusion : 

“ So you think it would not be safe to try Meighan 
— we have shrunk from doing it all along, for the fel- 
low has the name of being a good Catholic — that is 
to say, a staunch papist — but perhaps he might listen 
to reason, now that the trial is so near. There is 
yet time — if he could only be got to confess, and ac- 
knowledge that the priest urged him to do the deed. 
We might offer him something handsome.” 

“ I tell you it’s no use,” replied Hewitson, “ it 
would only make matters worse— Meighan is a de- 
vilish obstinate fellow, and I know he would not turn 
against the priest, nor confess, as we facetiously call 
it, if you gave him your whole estate.” 

“ Well, really, these witnesses that we have are so 
very low and their character is so notorious that it is 
a great drawback on the whole affair. Is there none 


TH!5 FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 

of the witnesses on the other side that could be turned 
to account?^’ 

“ I am most happy to inform you that we have suc- 
ceeded in getting one of them over, — a farmer of 
^tolerable standing.” 

“ And his name ?” 

“ Herbert.” 

“ Give me your hand, rector,” cried Maude in a 
glow of exulting joy. “The gaining over of that 
man is the making of us all. I know him very well 
— he calls himself a papist, but I believe he is neither 
one thing nor the other, a sort of amphibious animal 
that can live in either church as it serves his turn. 
But you must have given him a high price ?” 

“ His life, my friend, nothing less.” 

“ Why, how is that ? I heard nothing of his being 
in jeopardy ?” 

“ Oh ! but it was easy, to put him in, when we found 
that he was one of Sheehy^s main witnesses. The 
fear of death will bring a man to reason, when money 
will have no effect, so we sent and had him arrested, 
and Toohjr swore against him for Whiteboyism. 
When he found himself actually in jail, he was very 
glad to be offered his freedom on the terms we pro- 
posed. So, give up the notion of sounding Meighan, 
for it would only ruin all — ^he’d be sure to throw it 
in our faces, and though his word would have no ef- 
fect in point of law, yet it would be made a handle 
of hereafter, if anything came against us.” 

“ And besides we can do without him now, thanks 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


n 


to your friend Herbert. But let us be off, it’s get- 
ting near the time. I think there’s little doubt but 
we have our badger caught this time, we're here on 
our own ground^ and we have another sort of man 
than Gore on the bench. The only thing I’m afraid 
of is Keating’s evidence ; how is that to be got over ? 

You see Keating stands very high, d 1 take the 

fellow ! And they say he is to swear positively that 
Sheehy slept at his house on the very night in ques- 
tion. It is true, w^ have three plumpers against his 
one, but then the question is, whether there may not 
be others brought forward to support him.” 

The subject requires serious thought,” said the 
rector musingly, “ and we have not much time to re- 
flect upon it, for already I see the dragoons clearing 
the way for the judge. Come in here to the ‘ Spread 
Eagle,’ till we put our heads together^ as the saying is. 
Perhaps it may not be so bad after all. At all events 
let us consider it !” So in they went to “ take sweet 
counsel” together on Keating’s evidence, and the re- 
sult of their deliberations will be seen hereafter. On 
coming out of the hotel, the first they met in the 
street was one of Father Sheehy’s sisters, Mrs. 
Green, leaning on her husband’s arm, for she seemed 
scarcely able to stand. Her face was closely veiled, 
but her whole frame was trembling with agitation. 

“ Mr. Hewitson !” said Mr. Green, unexpectedly 
accosting that portly gentleman, “ the soldiers have 
refused us permission to enter the court-house — they 
say that they dare not admit us without orders from 


18 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


gome of the magistrates. Will you he so kind as to 
get us in. My wife would fain be present, though I 
would just as soon she were not.” 

“ Well, really, Green,” replied the fat dignitary, 
as he drew up his shirt collar, and stroked down his 
rosy chin, “ well, really, you must excuse me. I re- 
gret exceedingly that we cannot comply with Mrs. 
Green’s wishes, but women are the worst spectators 
on such occasions — they are apt to make too much 
noise, if anything excites their feelings. Good morn- 
ing.” 

“ Oh, my brother ! my doomed brother !” cried the 
unhappy sister, “ is there not one of your own kith 
or kin to be present when you’re tried for life or 
death ? May God forgive you, gentlemen, that’s all 
I say. But there will come a day for all this, be as- 
sured there will !” 

Her husband drew her away, while the two gen- 
tlemen laughed scornfully, as they bowed with mock 
respect and walked oft’ towards the court-house. 
There was a deep flush on the cheek of Terence 
Green, and some bitter words were hovering on his 
lips, but he resolutely repressed his anger, for he was 
a prudent man, and well knew that any expression of 
resentment from him would be wrested into an as- 
sault by the worthy magistrates, who desired no 
better than. to get a plausible excuse for taking Fa- 
ther Sheehy’s friends into custody. 

“ Don’t say anything to them, Mary dear,” he 
whispered to his wife, “ you know that that’s all they 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


79 


want, to get us to say or do them ill, that they may 
have us arrested. W e’ll leave them in the hands of 
God, darling, and let Him judge them. But I’m 
afraid it will go hard with his reverence this very 
day, for they have it arranged so that no one can get 
in without their knowledge — at least no one that 
could be of service to Father Nicholas, or poor Ned 
Meighan. Look, look, Mary !” he added, pointing 
down the street, “ see, there are the crown witnesses 
going to the court-house. See, they have them 
guarded by a company of soldiers. Oh, then, blessed 
Mother I” he added bitterly, “ look at Moll Hunlea, 
the infamous prostitute, dressed up in a cloak and 
bonnet, finer than ever she was before. And there’s 
Toohy, in the apparel of a gentleman, and the young 
ruffian. Jack Lonergan — oh, then, oh, then, is it pos- 
sible that any judge or jury will take word— 
tAeir oath against such a man as Father Sheehy ? 
Come away, dear, come away, I can’t stand this any 
longer.” 

The afflicted wife spoke not— she could not speak 
—but her tears fell fast and thick, as leaning heavily/ 
on her husband’s arm she moved away. 



80 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


CHAPTER IV. 

LAW AND JUSTICE AS OPPOSED TO EACH OTHER 

The first trial that came on was that of Edward 
Meighan, the alleged murderer of John Bridge. 
When placed in the dock, thh sunburnt face of the 
prisoner wore a satisfied and even an exulting smile, 
and there was triumph in the glance which he cast 
around. And well might it be so, for that humble 
son of toil had that very morning trampled on the 
glittering bait held out to him by the tempter, and 
spurned the degrading offer of pardon, involving as 
it did the sacrifice of principle. 

The two magistrates whom we have seen discuss- 
ing the question of attempting to bribe Meighan 
Iknew not that one of their brethren had already 
tried, and failed. This fact they only learned in the 
course of the day. 

Early in the morning as Meighan sat alone in his 
•dreary cell, thinking of his approaching^ trial, with 
the sad forebodings so natural to a husband and 
father in such a position, the door opened, and 
iin came — ^not the jailer, but one of the magis- 
trates, whom Meighan well knew. The prisoner 
stood up, and made a low bow; which the other re- 
’.turned, after carefully closiug the door. 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT. 


81 


“ Meighan !” said the gentleman, “ you are aware, 
I suppose, that your trial comes on to-day ?” 

“ Of coorse I am, your honor — I know it well.” 

Has it ever occurred to you that you have it in 
your power to escape even a trial ?” 

“Well, no, sir!” said Meighan — “how could I 
tnink of sich a thing — once in here !” and he looked 
around with, a visible shudder. “Once in here, 
there’s no gettin’ out without a thrial — every one 
knows that I” 

“ And yet there is a way,” returned the visitor, 
speaking slowly and distinctly. “It is in your 
power — and I put it to you as a husband and father 
— ay I and as a son, if you are not bound to ward 
off the impending danger ?” 

“ I don’t know, sir, till I hear how I’m to do it, 
then I’ll tell you whether I’m bound or not. You 
know me, sir, an’ I know you — it’s many a long day 
since you knew I was neither afeard nor ashamed to 
profess my religion, an’ it’s just as long since I 
knew that you had no love for Catholics, an’ would 
go any length to see one of us out o’ the way. Say 
what you have to say, then, without any cornin’ 
round about it.” 

There was an angry flush on the cheek of the 
magistrate, but he chose to assume a smile. “ This 
is bold talking, Meighan,” he said, “ but it is quite 
characteristic — let us, however, come to the point at 
once. What hopes have you, in case you stand your 
trial?” 


82 


THE FATE OF FAIHER SHEEHY. 


“ Well — not much, your honor, not much. There’s 
no one knows better than yourself that innocence 
is no security now-a-days. To be sure I have wit- 
ness plenty to prove that I had nothing to do with 
this murder — even if the deed was done, but that 
won’t save me, I know well — nor his reverence 
neither, God help us both !” 

“You say you have no hope,” said the visitor, not 
seeming to notice his last words — “well! here I 
stand who can set you free, even without a trial, and 
restore you to the wife and children and the aged 
father who are depending on you for support.’’ 

Meighan’s eye glistened, and his cheek glowed. 
“ And what would you have me do, sir ? what price 
would you lay on my freedom ?” 

“ Ouly turn king’s evidence, confess yourself 
guilty, and swear that Sheehy employed you to 
make away with Bridge, and you are a free man — 
ay 1 and a rich one !” 

“ Don’t say another word !” cried Meighan, 
“ don’t insult me any farther. I guessed what you 
were at from the very beginnin’. If I wasn’t a 
prisoner, you daren’t make sich an offer to me. Och 1 
then, this is the worst of all, indeed it is 1” and the 
poor fellow’s tears burst forth like rain, notwith- 
standing all his efforts to restrain them. 

“Then I suppose you reject my proposal?” said 
the magistrate coldly. . 

“ Reject it 1” said Meighan, in a voice half choked 
with emotion. “ Oh ! indeed I do then reject it. 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


83 


Although I am in jail for murder (here he made the 
sign of the cross on his forehead), God hasn’t given 
me up that way.” 

“ Life is very sweet !” said the magistrate, “ and 
it is the part of a fool to throw it away.” 

“ Well ! Td throw away a thousand lives if I had 
tliem,” exclaimed the prisoner fervently, “ before 
I’d consent to swear away any one’s life, an’ the 
priest’s above all ! — och, then, Father Sheehy !” he 
added clasping his hands together, “ did any one 
ever hear sich a thing "as them to ask Ned Meighan 
to turn informer against you — you that’s as innocent 
as the babe unborn — och, then, is there justice in 
heaven ? for if there isn’t God help us all ! Ay ! that 
Id be a bearin’ an’ a seein’, sure enough — Ned 
Meighan confessin’ himself guilty of sich a crime — 
sich a black crime as that, an’ swearin’ that Father 
Sheehy bid him do it ! I’ll jist tell you what it is, 
sir,” he added with a sudden change of manner — 
“ the sooner you take yourself out o’ my sight. I’ll be 
all the better pleased.” 

“ But remember your wife and children, and your 
old father!” 

“ I do remember them, an’ I could never look one 
o’ them in the face if I thought even for a minute 
of doin’ the likes o’ that. If it’s God’s will they 
must all bear up agin their heavy loss when I’m 
taken from them, but they’ll never have it thrown 
in their faces that I done anything for them to be 
ashamed of— an’ that ’id be the shame o’ the world 


84 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


if I tould a lie, an’ swore to it, to add a few years 
to ray life. Don’t be uneasy about ray family — lor 
I know they’re a great trouble to you all out — but 
jist go your ways. I’ll not spake another word 
while you’re in the place, so you’ll be only losin’ 
your time.” 

“Well, depend upon it, both you and the priest 
shall swing for it !” 

“ An’ if we do, too, we’re not the first that suffered 
in the wrong — nor we’ll not be the last either, while 

the law is in the hands of you an’ the like of you.” 

# # # # * # * 

Two hours later, poor Meighan stood in the dock, 
and what wonder was it that his fine, manly face 
wore a look of triumph ! But a saddened expres- 
sion soon came over every feature, when in a corner 
of the court-house he recognized his aged father 
leaning on his stick. A glance of mournful meaning 
was exchanged between them, and then the old man 
raised his eyes to heaven, and pointed upwards 
with his finger. Just then the trial commenced. 
The witnesses for the prosecution were Mrs. Brady 
— (reader ! it was the miserable prostitute Dunlea, 
who had borrowed the name of the soldier Brady 
with whom she then lived, in order to give a show 
of decency to her evidence) — Toohy, the notorious 
horse-stealer, and the vagabond Lonergan. These 
worthies all swore that Meighan had murdered 
Bridge, on the night of the 24th of October, by 
striking him on the head with a bill-hook, at a 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY, 


85 


signal from Father Sheehy. “ Oh, then, glory be to 
God !” cried the prisoner when he heard this sworn 
for the first time, “ if that doesn’t beat all the 
swearin’ ever man or mortal heard !— oh ! — oh ! — 
isn’t it a wonder that the ground doesn’t open under 
heir feet an’ swallow them up !” “ Silence there !’* 

cried a stentorian voice, “ not another word !” The 
prisoner was silent, but a deep groan burst from the 
oppressed heart of the poor old father, and he was 
heard to murmur, “ Wirra ! wirra \ is it him — is it 
Ned to split any one’s skull — oh ! sweet mother 
Mary, are you listenin’ to that ?” “ Silence in 

court !” roared the loud voice again, and all was still 
save the witness on the table. It was Toohy, who, 
dressed up for the occasion in a superfine blue coat, 
with black silk vest and knee breeches (as an eye-wit- 
ness described him), made a very respectable appear- 
ance. Then followed Lonergan, who being no more 
than sixteen, and small in stature even for that age, 
wajs equipped in a long blue coat, reaching to his 
heels, with a view to make him appear older. All 
three had their lesson well learned, and there were 
no lawyers bold enough to cross-examine them, at 
least so as to test their evidence, and so the prose- 
cution was triumphantly closed. “ W ell ! but we have 
plenty of good, decent witnesses,” said the father of 
Meighan m a low voice to those about him. Thanks 
be to God ! poor Ned has no want of evidence — 
these wretches *11 not have it all their own way.” 

Husht I husht ! Atty,” said a friend near him, in a 


86 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


low whisper. “ God help us all I there’s not much 
law for us ! any one o’ them blackguards that we 
heard swearin’ sich barefaced lies will be wojth half 
a dozen of Ned’s witnesses — for all theyUlhQ swearin’ 
the blessed thruth. But, husht, we must keep silent 
or we’ll be put out !” 

The witnesses for the defence were numerous and 
of good character, and furnished overwhelming proof 
that Edward Meighan did not leave his own house all 
that night, when Bridge was said to have been mur- 
dered. Ay, it was proved beyond a doubt that the 
same Bridge had not been murdered, nor even mo- 
lested on that night, having been seen by more than 
one individual some days later and two men of fair, 
unblemished reputation swore positively that he had 
told them he was about to leave the country for fear 
of being taken by the soldiers. Such a body of 
clear, direct testimony in his favor might well lead 
the prisoner to reckon on an acquittal, and it was 
not strange to see the old man, his father, raise his 
hands and eyes to heaven with a fervent “ thank 
God !” when the last witness for his son had left 
the table. As for Meighan himself he was thinking 
at that moment of the priest, and, knowing that the 
two cases were so closely connected, he, too, thanked 
God that Father Sheehy might yet escape. But ah 
this was soon changed — the judge rose to charge the 
jury, and while he dwelt on the 'positive evidence 
for the prosecution, he declared all the other un- 
satisfactory and deserving of little or no attention. 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


87 


A faintness came over the prisoner, and he leaned 
heavily against the railing of the dock, but in a 
momeot he turned and looked towards his father. 
The poor old man was still there, leaning on hia 
stick — his thin white hair thrown back from his fore- 
head, and his eyes fixed with a wild, eager stare on 
the door whWe the jury had disappeared ! nor did 
he once look at his son while the jury-box was 
empty, probably fearing that the sight might draw 
from him some exclamation which might attract 
observation, and be the cause of his being expelled 
from the court-house. 

After a short deliberation the jury re-entered 
their box, and pronounced Edward Meighan Guilty 
of the murder of John Bridge ! A wild scream was 
heard from the body of the court-house, and poor 
old Meighan was seen lying pale and motionless in 
the arms of a bystander. The unhappy prisoner, 
forgetting even the awful words he had just heard, 
thought only of his father 

“ Och, then, isn’t there some good Christian there 
that’ll see to the poor ould man — the poor heart- 
broken ould man ” 

“ Ay, in throth is there, Ned !” said one and ano- 
ther, and several sturdy farmers gathered around 
the old man. “ Don’t be frettin’ about him, for he’ll 
never want a friend — God pity him an’ you — an’ us 
all for the matter o’ that !” 

“Well!” said poor Meighan, with a fain attempt 
at a smile, “ well, sure enough if this is law it isn’t 


88 


THE PATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


justice — ^but it isn’t the same in the other world— 
there we’ll get justice — an’ sure that’s comfort. 
There’ll be no perjured witnesses heard thcu'e. I sup- 
pose there’s no use in me saying anything more, 
even if I was allowedi — for what could I say oiily 
repeat again, which I will till my last breath, that I 
never harmed John Bridge, nor any other man — an» 
God knows that as well as I do.” 

“ Take him away,” shouted a loud authoritative 
voice, “ and bring in Nicholas Sheehy.” 

A low murmur of indignation ran through the 
court, notwithstanding that scarcely any of the 
friends of the prisoner were present. The sound 
rose higher and higher during the time that inter- 
vened between Meighan’s removal and the entrance 
of the priest, but when the latter was brought in 
and placed at the bar many voices were heard in 
various parts of the court-house crying out : 

“ May the Lord deliver you from your enemies, | 
Father Sheehy dear ! — but, ochone ! you’ve only j* 
poor chance afther how they’ve thrated Ned 
Meighan.” 

“ The perjured villians,” cried others — “ they’ll 
swear whatever comes before them, an’ a man’s life 
isn’t worth twopence in their hands.’ 

But all these friendly voices were speedily silenced 
— the prisoner was forbidden to speak — and the trial 
commenced. 

While the first witnesses were examined, Father 
Sheehy appeared to listen with an expression of 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


89 


earnest curiosity on his face, but he remained per- 
fectly silent. From time to time as the wretched 
witnesses proceeded with their respective tales, he 
was seen to raise his hands and eyes to heaven in 
mute astonishment, as though wondering how any 
human being could imagine and relate such bare- 
faced falsehoods — sworn to, moreover, on the Holy 
Evangelists. There was a mournful look in his eyes, 
and a paleness on his cheek which denoted a failing 
spirit, but still he bore it bravely, considering his 
recint imprisonment, and the announcement of 
Meighan’s conviction, which had reached him just 
as he entered the dock. The witnesses were the 
same who had sworn against Meighan ; and when 
Moll Dunlea made her deposition, and swore posi- 
tively that she had heard the prisoner tell Meighan 
to give Bridge his dose (meaning to strike him with 
his weapon). Father Sheehy was heard to murmur 
in an under tone — “ Thou knowest, oh Omniscient 
God, that I never saw this unhappy woman till this 
present moment, though from her scandalous life I 
was obliged to excommunicate her.” 

Yet, though the scandalous creature and her wor- 
thy compeers swore in the most^ positive manner 
that Bridge had been murdered with his consent and 
approval — and though Meighan had been so lately 
condemned on the same testimony, notwithstanding 
his having abundant proof of being entirely inno- 
cent, yet still did Father Sheehy appear to hope on, 
while a shadow of hope remained. He had just 


90 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


drawn himself up to his fullest height, after the ex 
amination of one of these ^ired witnesses, when he 
heard Patrick Herbert called, and forthwith that in 
dividual appeared on the table. A mortal paleness 
overspread the face of the prisoner, a sudden faint- 
ness came over him, and he would have fallen to the 
ground had he not caught the railing of the dock. 

“ Why,” he said in a low voice, leaning over to 
his lawyer, “ why, this was one of my witnesses — he 
knows very well that I wasn’t within some miles of 
the spot where they say Bridge was murdered^ on 
the night in question. “ Good God ! can he^ too, 
consent to go against his conscience ?” 

Alas ! he found that Herbert had been gained 
over by the threat of a prosecution for Whiteboy- 
ism, if he persisted in giving his testimony for the 
priest, and the crown lawyers fearing that the pris- 
oner might have other witnesses brought forward 
in his place, if his dereliction were known to him in 
time, had purposely kept it concealed. Herbert 
was evidently a man of a timid, irresolute character, 
and now when he was swearing in direct opposition 
to his conscience, there was a tremor in his voice, 
and an agitation in his whole demeanor that spoke a 
mind ill at ease. It is true, his testimony was not 
very important, being indeed rather of a negative 
than a positive character, but still the desired end 
was gained, the prisoner was robbed of one of his 
best witnesses. Once, and once only, Father 
Sheehy forgot himself so far as to speak to him. 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


91 


Herbert ! Herbert !” said he, “ do you forget that 
God sees and hears you ?” The judge sternly com- 
manded him to be silent, and Herbert went on, 
though his varying color and faltering voice showed 
how deeply he felt the appeal. But he never once 
dared to raise his eyes towards the prisoner, but 
kept them cast down, while he hurried over the 
shameful business in hand scarcely niaking his re- 
plies intelligible, from the low, indistinct tones in 
which he spoke. As he was quitting the table, the 
full, deep voice — the well-known voice of the priest 
again reached his ear. 

“Thank God ! your conscience is yet alive. I see 
you are. already tortured. Go, poor man — go and 
do penance; and may God forgive you, as I do.” 

The prosecution was closed and the defence com- 
menced. Few were the witnesses called, but they 
were well worthy of credit, and their testimony, if 
not conclusive, was, at least, strongly presumptive 
of the fact that Father Sheehy was innocent of the 
crime laid to his charge. Still nothing very import- 
ant had been gained for him, and his lawyer began 
to manifest a certain degree of impatience, when 
Mr. Keating, of .Turbrid, was called, and instantly 
ascended the witness table. Mr. Keating was a man 
in the prime of life, with a singularly handsome 
countenance, whereon was stamped the candor 
and uprightness which belonged to his character, 
together with that .ook of benevolence which lends 
such a charm t« “ the human face divine.” His fine 


92 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


person was attired in those rich but unostentatious 
habiliments which distinguish the man of education 
and of good standing in society from the epheme- 
ral fops who, having' little else to recommend them, 
seem to devote all their energies to the one great 
business of “ dressing fashionably.” When Mr 
Keating had bowed to the court he turned and 
saluted the prisoner in the dock with as- much 
respect as though he stood at the altar. A cheerful 
smile lit up the wan features of the persecuted priest 
as he returned the salute, and, moving a step for- 
ward, he seemed to await what was coming with 
renewed hope. He glanced towards certain of the 
magistrates, where they sat near the judge, and he 
could see that they regarded Keating with a scowl of 
suspicion and dislike. “ Of course they hate him,” 
thought he, “ for they know that his testimony can- 
not be set aside, and must be conclusive in establish- 
ing my innocence. But he can set them at defiance 
— his character and station place him beyond their 
reach — heaven bless him and his !” 

The testimony of Mr. Keating was to this effect, 
that Father She^hy had slept at his house on the ' 
night when the murder was said to. have been com- 
mitted, and that he could not possibly have left the 
house during the night without his knowledge. 
Being asked could he then swear positively that the 
prisoner had not gone out in the night, he answered, 

“ Yes, I can-^-on my oath. Father Sheehy went to 
bed at a rather early hour of the night, and did not 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY, 9B 

leave it again till the following morning was some- 
what advanced.” 

“ Thanks be to God !” murmured the prisoner, 
“ they cannot go beyond that.” And he saw with 
satisfaction that even the judge seemed strongly im- 
pressed with the conclusive nature of this evidence. 

From the body of the court-house arose* an en- 
thusiastic shout of gladness, that made the roof 
ring, — many voices, too, were heard calling out : 
“ Long life to your honor ! it’s^, you that can tell the 
truth. Success to you, Mr. Keating ! Many,^s the 
good turn your honor done before noV, but this is 
the best of all !” “ God reward you, sir,” cried 

another, while several were heard to say : “ An* 
sure I could swear to the same thing — I was^talkin* 
to him that evenin’ on the lawn at Turbrid !” and so 
forth. 

Mr.' Keating was cross-examined according to 
the most conclusive method of making a witness 
perjure himself, but not a particle of contradiction 
could be elicited from him — his evidence was plain, 
unvarnished truth, and he was not the man to be 
embarrassed by the quibbling, or quirking, or pun- 
ning of a crown-lawyer. Seeing that his inquisitor 
had paused, and manifested no intention of renewing 
his examination, the witness said : 

“I [Presume, sir, you have nothing more to ask of 
me — may I be allowed to go down 

“Ay, you may go!” said the man of law snap 
pishly, “ we have done with you.” 


94 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


Just then stood up the the rector of Clogheen, the 
Rev. Mr. Hewitson, and his rubicund face was burst- 
ing with importance. “ Is not this/’ said he, “ James 
Keating, commonly called, of Tubberett or Turbrid ?’ 

“ Why, certainly, Mr. Hewitson, that is my name 
and the name of my residence,” replied Keating 
with evident surprise. “ I should think the question 
was altogether superfluous here ; there are few in 
this assembly to whom I am unknown.” 

“Well,” said the portly dignitary of the estab- 
lished church, deliberately unfolding a written docu- 
ment, and glancing over its contents, “ such being 
the case, I have to inform this worshipful court that 
said James Keating is on my list of disaffected and 
dangerous persons.” 

“ I !” cried Keating in amazement — “ I on your 
list? — why, in the name of all that is sacred, how 
come I on your list of disaffected persons ? Who 
has dared to accuse me of crime ?” He spoke with 
warmth — the honest fervor of indignant innocence. 

“ Pray be cool, sir,” said Hewitson, with a sneer- 
ing smile — “ you are down here in black and white 
(laying his finger on the paper in his hand) as having 
been accessary to the murder of a sergeant and a 
corporal at Kew Market. As a natural consequence, 
your evidence is inadmissible.” 

“ Gracious God !” exclaimed the prisoner, “ wilt 
thou endure this ? — wilt thou suffer this innocent 
man to be made the victim of these men’s hatred of 
me ? — is he to be involved in my ruin, because he 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


95 


jioved justice, and gave testimony to the truth ! Oh, 
Lord — oh. Lord ! I beseech thee that thou save him 
from the vengeful malice of our enemies. Do with 
me as thou wilt— I am a poor, insignificant indi- 
^vidual, whose life is of small moment to any one — 
but, oh, my God, his life is valuable, and let not the 
persecutors of our faith take it away.” He spoke al- 
most aloud, at the same time covering his face with 
both hands, as though to shut out the visible world, 
and for a moment there was a death-like silence in 
the court. It was but a moment — cries and sobs 
were heard around, and Mr. Keating spoke, but he 
Bpoke not for himself — thought not of himself. 
Turning towards the prisoner he said : 

“ Father Sheehy, they have devised this new plan 
to deprive you of the value of my evidence — may 
the All-merciful God protect you, for your last 
earthly hope is thus wrested from you.” 

“ Take him away ! — take him away !” shouted 
Hewitson. “ Handcuffs here quickly for the pri- 
soner Keating !” And instantly two constables ad- 
vanced to seize him. 

“ Stand back yet a moment !” said Keating, waving 
his hand with an air of dignity that awed the men; 
“ I must say a word at parting. My lord,” he said, 
bowing respectfully to the judge, “ I address myself 
not to that man who has so conveniently found my 
name on his list — with him I have nothing to do, but 
to your lordship, and this honorable court, I must 
be permitted to say that, on the word and honor of 


96 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT. 


a gentleman — nay, on my solemn oath, Father 
Sheehy is as innocent of the crime laid to his charge 
as I am of this newly-coined indictment, and I think 
even those who are prejudiced against this perse- 
cuted priest must see that this accusation has been 
brought against Tne solely to deprive him of the 
benefit of my testimony, which they dared not at- 
tempt to set aside. Whatever comes of it, with re- 
gard to myself, I will bear my fate as a Christian 
and a man, and as I now see that my reverend friend 
is doomed, and perhaps myself, too, I can only pray 
that he and I may meet in that world where Justice 
reigns supreme. Men ! you can now put on your 
irons — Catholic gentlemen are well used to such or- 
naments in these ascendancy days.” 

“ My lord,” said Maude, rising from his seat be- 
hind the judge, for Hewitson was literally speechless 
with anger — “ my lord, is not this man’s insolence 
deserving of punishment ?” v 

“ Which he is about to receive,” said the judicial 
functionary, with a bland smile. “ You seem to 
forget, my excellent friend, that he is to be taken to 
prison forthwith, and there kept in chains, until such 
time as his trial comes on. Our reverend friend here 
has ordered him to prison, so rest contented.” 
Maude bowed, and smiled, and resumed his seat. 
Keating was quickly handcuffed, and carried off to 
solitary confinement — but before he went he bade 
adieu to Father Sheehy, and requested him to pray 
for him and his family. 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


97 


“ The blessing of God, and my blessing, be about 
you and yours, best and truest of my friends !” cried 
the priest, in a loud, distinct voice, “ but fear not, 
Mr. Keating, —something tells me that God will not 
give you over to the Philistines. Go in peace, for 
your children shall not now be fatherless — you shall 
escape — I, the priest of the -Lord, tell you so from 
Him !” 

Mr. Keating could only smile and repeat the word, 
“ Farewell !” till he was hurried out of sight. The 
judge turned a stern countenance on the priest: 

“ Prisoner,” he said, with solemn emphasis, “ I 
command you to be silent. Dare not again to dis- 
turb the peace of the court.” 

The prisoner bowed in silence, and folding his 
arms on his breast, stood calmly regarding the 
scene — as calmly as though he were no more than a 
casual spectator. 

The novel method taken to do away with Keat- 
ing’s evidence had an effect which probably its in- 
ventors might have foreseen, viz. : that of deterring 
others who had it in their power to give evidence 
for the defence from coming forward. Whispered 
dialogues might have been heard in more than one 
place amongst the crowd. 

“Why, then, Paddy Cusack,” said one farmer in 
a low voice to his neighbor, “ didn’t you say a while 
ago that you’d go for’ad and prove that you were 
talkin’ to Father Sheehy that very night in Mr. 


98 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT. 


Keating’s parlor bey ant — when you went to spake 
to him about christenin’ the young one ?” 

“To be sure I did,” replied honest Paddy, “ but 
where ’id he the use o’ me doin’ it ? — don’t you see 
how they handled Mr, Keating himself, that’s so 
high up in the world ? and bedad it’s hard to say 
they’d let me off aisy, that’s only a poor cottier, God 
help me !” 

“ Ay, but aren’t you bound to tell the thruth,” 
persisted his friend, “an’ more especially when it 
might sarve Father Sheehy ?” 

“ Oh, ay, if it ’id sarve him,” said Paddy briskly^ 
“ it’s myself that would soon go for’ ad if they were 
to hang me for it to-morrow ; but you see, they’re 
detarmined to bring him in guilty, an’ all the evi- 
dence that we could give would be of no use — none 
in the world. Moll Dunlea and Jackey Lonergan^ — 
the devil’s own boy — ’ill be listened to, bekase 
they’re paid to do the dirty job^ but for an honest 
man to go up and tell God’s thruth, as his con- 
science bids him, there’ll be a deaf ear turned to 
him, an’ he’ll be marked into the bargain. God help 
poor Father Sheehy any way !” concluded Paddy 
with a deep-drawn sigh. 

When the lawyer for the defence was asked whe 
ther he had any more evidence to bring forward, he 
answered in the negative, and begged to know whe- 
ther Mr. Keating’s evidence might not be allowed to 
stand good. He was roughly and sternly answered 
“ DO, sir!” and the judge arose to address the jury 


THE FATF OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


99 


He spoke for a considerable time, dwelling particu- 
larly on the well-known character of the prisoner at 
the bar as a demagogue and a political agitator, as 
a man who encouraged the ignorant and misguided 
people to throw off all restraint and rebel against 
the lawful authorities. After a little circumlocution 
he came to the murder of Bridge, and described it 
as being of the most atrocious kind. It had been 
clearly proved, he said, that the prisoner at the bar 
had, at least, encouraged the actual assassin to do 
the dreadful deed, and he charged the jury as loyal 
subjects and friends of humanity to do their duty 
fearlessly, as indeed he was convinced they would. 
The only allusion he made to the evidence for the 
defence- was somewhat characteristic of the time. 
“ There is abundant evidence,” said he, “ of the pri- 
soner’s guilt, but he has not a single witness to prove 
him innocent, notwithstanding his well-known and, 
indeed, baneful influence over the people. The only 
individual who could be found to give any important 
testimony for him is now in prison, on a charge of a 
precisely similar nature. Gentlemen of the jury, 
the case is now in your hands, and I am sure you 
will decide justly and according to the evidence be- 
fore you.” 

The obsequious jurors bowed low to the compli 
ment, and marched in rank and file from their 
box with becoming dignity of mien, to decide the 
fate- of the celebrated Father Sheehy — the far-famed 
defender of the people’s rights, and the benevolent 


100 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


consoler of their griefs and misfortunes. While the 
jury-box was empty, the lonely occupant of the 
dock stood mute and motionless — his head thrown 
slightly forward, and his arms still crossed on his 
bosom. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, for his 
mind was far from the present scene — far, far away 
in the viewless realms of thought. 

Suddenly a door opened, and he raised his head. 
The foreman of the jury entered the box, and after 
him came his brother jurors in succession. When 
all had gained their places, the foreman advanced to 
the front of the box, and announced that after the 
most mature deliberation they had, found the pri- 
soner, Nicholas Sheehy, Guilty of the murdeo" of John 
Bridge^ that is to say^ as having aided and abetted Ed- 
ward Meighan therein. 

Again was the voice of wailing, loud and deep, 
heard echoing through the building— sighs and loud 
groans, and ochone I ochone ! gave note that many a 
heart even in that packed assemblage sympathized 
with the unfortunate victim of injustice. But the 
prisoner himself only raised his eyes to heaven and 
said, “ Even this^ my God ! even this can I bear ! all 
things, whatsoever Thou wilt, whether they be good 
or evil ! so long as Thou keepest me in the state of 
grace, I can cheerfully submit to Thy holy will.” 

He was then removed, to be brought up the fol- 
lowing day for sentence. 

No sooner was the trial over than the most inde- 
cent triumph was manifested in and around the 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. xOl 

court-house. The magistrates hurried out to con- 
gratulate each other on their success, and were to be 
seen here and there through the town shaking hands 
in open exultation. “ Ha !” said the Bagwell brother 
who had been present at Father Sheehy’s last trial, 
“ ha ! ha ! Sir Thomas, he hadn’t his Dublin mob 
this time at his back — it was easy to see that we 
were the rulers here, and I say now what I said 
Uien^ that if he had been tried in Clonmel for that 
last affair, he would have had his desert long ago. 
But you know what the old saw says.” 

“ Ay ! ay !” laughed Maude, “ Better late than 
never ^ — so say I, too, and it is well we have him snugly 
trapped at last.’* 

*#*«**• 

Meanwhile a heartrending scene was going for- 
ward in that darksome cell which contained the pris- 
oner, Meighao, Father Sheehy’s companion in mis- 
fortune. An old gray-haired man, and a young, 
fair-faced woman were with him; it was his father 
and his wife, the mother of his three children. They 
had been admitted by the jailor as a special act of 
grace, and for some minutes none of the three could 
speak, they could only weep and look at each other 
in mournful silence — the silence of intense anguish. 
The convict spoke at last, when having once more 
embraced his wife, he took hold of his father’s hand. 
“Sure I was lookin’ at you in the court-house, father 
dear ! an’ God help us all, it was you I was thinkin’ 
of, most o’ the time, except when poor Biddy an’ 


102 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


the children ’id come into my heai,-^well ! Biddy 
darlin’, this is a black day to you ma colleen dhas / 
an’ one that you never thought to see. But don’t 
cry so, Biddy — don’t dear, don’t, it goes to my heart 
to see your tears. An’ then there’s no use in mur- 
murin’ or repinin’ ; if this wasn’t the will o’ God it 
’id never come to pass, so let us thry to bear it as 
stoutly as we can.” 

“Oh!, but, Ned! — Ned!” cried his wife, with a 
fresh burst of tears, “ what in the world put it in 
ar y one’s mind to swear murder against you ? — och ! 
oc'h I — you of all people, you that wouldn’t harm a 
d''g, much less a Christian ! aren’t they worse than 
tl e divil himself that brought such a thing against 
y,>u?” 

“Well! you needn’t wondher so much at that, 
Brddy dear,” said her husband, “ when they’re now 
thry in’ Father Sheehy for the same <»ffence. Oh, 
then, it would be no way strange if God would ram 
down fire from heaven and consume them ofi* the face 
of the earth.” 

“ But, Ned dear,” said his father, wiping away 
the tears with the back of his hand — “ do you think 
what’ll they do to you an’ Father Sheehy — if they 
bring him in guilty, too ? 

“ An’ they will, father, you may be sure they will,” 
said Edward earnestly — “ they’re bent on doin’ it, 
an’ do it they will, by hook or by crook. Sure wasn’t 
one o’ the magistrates here with me this very mornin’ 
wantin’ me to turn king’s evidence an’ swear against 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 103 

hinif an’ if I would that they’d save my life — ay ! 
without ever a thrial at all — an’ make me a rich man 
besides.” 

“ An’ you refused to* do it ?” cried the wife and 
father in the same breath, and, with startling ear- 
nestness, leaving it doubtful whether they approved 
of the step or not. 

“ Refused !” repeated Edward — “ refused, is it ? 
why don’t you both know very well that I wouldn’t 
listen to such an offer ! — God sees only I was 
handcuffed I’d have sent him out head foremost, 
prisoner an’ ail as I was. I would indeed — worse than 
hang me they couldn’t do, an’ that they’ll do ai^ way. 
Refused to do it — ^to be sure I did, and why not ?” 

“ That’s my own darlin’ son,” said the old man fer- 
vently, “ if you consented to do sich a shameful thing 
you’d be the death of your father, but now I’m 
proud and happy — proud an’ happy though my one 
son is in your place, Ned Meighan ! I can bear all 
now !” murmured the poor old man. 

“ An’ me too, Ned, me too !” and the heart-broken 
wife fell once more into her husband’s outstretched 
arms — “thanks be to God you had the grace to 
thrate their offer as it desarved. I’ll be a poor, sor- 
rowful woman all the days of my life if they take 
you from us, agra gal^ but then I'm thankful withal 
that you have done your duty to God an’ to his 
reverence that’s in sore peril. Oh ! but then when I 
think — when I think of the time that’s cornin’ ! ” 


104 THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 

“ Come away both of you, the time’s expired !** 
growled a voice at the door, and in a moment the 
did man and his daughter-in-law were hurried away 
without being allowed to say farewell I 



THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


105 


CHAPTER V. 

THE LAST ACT OF THE TRAGEDY. 

At an early hour on the following day the prison 
era were brought up to receive their sentence, and 
poor Meighan’s turn came first. He received the 
sentence of death with surprising fortitude, consider- 
ing him as a man without education. But though 
wholly ignorant of book-learning, he was a Catholic, 
and well instructed in the elevating doctrines of the 
Christian faith, and such a man can never be called 
uneducated, for he is educated for eternity. His 
wife was present, and so wa^ his father, and when 
they heard the dread sentence pronounced, they clung 
to each other, as though for support, one deep, heart- 
breaking groan from the old man, and a single ex- 
clamation of, “ Oh, God pity us, God pity us !’^ from 
the pale lips of poor Biddy, and then both were silent 
— they did not even shed a tear — such grief as theirs 
cannot weep. Poor Edward Meighan was removed, 
and a dead silence fell upon the crowded court — ex- 
pectation was on every face, and all eyes were turned 
towards the door leading from the jail. It opened, 
and Father Sheehy was brought in. He walked with 
a firm step to the front of the dock, and placing his 
two hands on the railing, made a low bow to the 


106 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT. 


judge, and then looked around as though to see was 
there any one face that he could recognize as that of 
a friend. There were many, for the trial was over, 
and the prisoner convicted, and it was just as well 
to let the papists be present to hear the priest sen. 
tenced. Many a kindly eye was beaming on hinl — 
many more were filled with tears as they gazed, and 
a faint gleam of satisfaction flitted, over hrs face.. 
Having returned the salute of those who ventured 
to bow to him. Father Sheehy turned towards the 
bench. The judge had on the awful hlach cap^ and 
his long pale face looked ghastly and grim as he 
gazed on the prisoner, but the latter shrank not. 

“ Nicholas Sheehy !” said the judge, “ Have you any 
reason to offer why sentence of death should not be 
passed upon you 

“ My good lord !” said the priest, with a simple 
earnestness of manner that touched every heart that i 
was not steeled by prejudice — “ my good lord ! 1 1 
am aware that your question is a mere form, and that I 
anything I can or could say would have no effect— ■ 
still, as the opportunity is afforded me, I must say j 
that I am entirely innocent of the crime — the hein- 
ous crime of which I have been convicted. Not 
only am I innocent thereof, but, to the best of my 
belief, no such murder has been committed. I am 
almost fully persuaded that this very John Bridge 
is still living, for we.have the clearest evidence that 
some days subsequent to the date of the supposed 
murder the man was seen alive and in good health. 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


107 


and took leave of his friends to go to either Cork 
or Kinsale to embark for some foreign country. 

Here the excitement throughout the court became 
so great that the judge was obliged to interfere, and 
commanded all to be silent, under pain of being 
expelled from the court-house. To the prisoner he 
said : This is totally irrelevant. Have you noth- 
ing to say that bears upon your own individual 
case 

“ My lord ! it appears to me that I speak to the 
p irpose — surely I do when myself and another are 
tt^ be put to death for a crime which never was 
committed by any one. Knowing, or at least be- 
lieving this to be the case, I protest against the 
eotire proceedings, as regards Meighan and myself, 
and will protest until my latest moment against the 
shameful injustice, the gross perjury, the deadly 
malice of which we are the victims. In conclusion 
I must declare that notwithstanding all this, I bear 
these unhappy men who persecute me even to death 
not the slightest ill-will ; I leave them in the hands 
of a just God, knowing that He will deal with them 
according to their deserts ! That is all I have to 
say ! I leave God to distinguish between the inno- 
cent and the. guilty !” 

The judge had listened with evident impatieno‘0 
and scarcely was the last word uttered when he 
arose, and putting up his right hand he drew down 
his ghastly cap over his brows, saying in a deep, 
guttural voice : “Then it becomes my painful duty 


108 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


to pronounce the awful sentence which the law pre- 1 
scribes. Since you seem disposed to deny yoiirl 
guilt, clearly as it has been established, you are to; 
be considered as still unrepenting. You shall bel 
hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Saturday next, 
the 15th inst., and may God have mercy on your 
soul, and grant you a sight of the enormity of your 
crime !” v | 

“ It is well !” replied the undaunted priest, “ and 
I thank your lordship for your good wishes. Doubt- 1 
less I have much to answer for before God, since 
we are all sinful creatures at the very best, but He 
knows that of this crime, or arught like unto it, I am 
wholly innocent. To His justice I fearlessly and 
with all confidence give myself up— praise, honor 
and' glory to His holy name now and forever more, 
and may His will be done on earth as it is in 
heaven !” 

Here the long-restrained feelings of Father Shee- 
hy’s friends burst forth anew — sighs and groans, 
and half-stifled exclamations of horror and of pity 
were heard on every side, and it required all the 
authority of the judge to restore anything like 
order. In the midst of the tumult the prisoner was 
removed, and very soon after the court adjourned 
till the following day. 

During the short interval between the sentence 
and its execution nothing could equal the excitement 
of the public mind. People of all classes felt them- 
selves deeply interested ; the Catholics, of course. 


THE FATE CF FATHER SHEEHY. 


109 


were filled with indignation, for the trial and con- 
viction of Father Sheehy and Meighan had outraged 
every sense of justice, being the very climax of 
shameless corruption, and a direct violation of all 
law, human and divine. There were few men of his 
day so popular as Father Sheehy, and the people 
seemed everywhere to regard him as the victim of 
his high-souled generosity and undisguised sympa- 
thy with them in their sufferings. It required, 
indeed, all the influence of the priests to keep them 
from pouring into Clonmel and attacking the jail. 
In their ardent attachment to Father Sheehy they 
utterly lost sight of their own safety, and would 
have rushed on certain destruction, without even a 
chance of saving the doomed victim of religious 
intolerance and political hatred. The jail was con- 
stantly surrounded by a strong military force, some 
of Lord Drogheda’s troops having been brought 
from Clogheen to reinforce the garrison. 

By a great stretch of favor his awn immediate 
family were permitted to see him, and also Father 
Doyle, as his spiritual director. His demeanor was 
calm during all those mournful days, and he even 
succeeded in cheering and consoling his afflicted re- 
latives by his glowing descriptions of the joy which 
awaits the blessed in the other world — in that world 
whither he was hastening. He studiously diverted 
their minds from the violent death which awaited 
him, and dwelt on the joy of being released from the 
miseries of this life, the bliss of shaking off “ this 


110 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT 


mortal coil,*’ and putting on the robes of immortality. 

“ And then,” said he, “ as for the dark stain which 
will rest on my character, even that need not dis- 
tress you, my kind friends ! for I feel assurei that 
the all-righteous God will clear up this fearful mys- i 
tery, and show forth my innocence and that of poor ; 
Meighan. On this head I have no fears.” i 

It was the day before that appointed for his exe- j 
cution, and Father Sheehy had just parted with his i 
two sisters, and some other dear friends, of whom ! 
he begged that they would not ask to see him on the i 
following day, “ for,” said he, “ as I am to-morrow j 
to appear before my God, I would rather be left to ; 
undisturbed preparation. Let none of you come j 
near me, then, for I would fain break asunder now j 
of my own free will those bonds of earthly affection | 
-=-those ‘ cords of Adam’ which death will rend to- i 
morrow. Go now, my sisters — and may God bless | 
you and yours, and guide you safe into the port of j 
salvation — for shame ! — for shame ! — why weep so I 
bitterly ? — why, one would think you had but little 1 
of the Christian’s hope. Do you not know and feel ■ 
that we shall meet again — probably very soon, i» 

, that heaven where our Divine Master lives to wel- 
come our coming ? Only keep your last end con- 
tinually in view, so as to avoid sin, as much as in you . 
lies, and I will venture to predict a happy meeting 
for us all, knowing that the God whom we serve de- 
lights in showing mercy to the contrite sinner. 
Farewell, be of good cheer — and forget not to pray 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


Ill 


for me when I am gone hence !” So saying he took 
the hand of each sister in his own, and held them o 
moment there, while with eyes raised to heaven ho 
invoked a blessing on their heads, again exhorted 
them to be of good heart — to which they only re- 
plied by a doleful shake of the head, and a fresh 
burst of tears. “ No — no, no !” murmured Mrs. 
Burke, the elder, “ there’s no use in telling us that, 
when we have to-morrow before us. I’m afraid its 
little joy or pleasure we’ll ever have in this world, 
after such a blow as 

“ May the Lord pity us !” ejaculated the younger. 
“ Oh ! Katty dear, how will we stand it at all ? 
when I think that to-morrow the best of brothers is 
to die such a death, and his life sworn away by such 
vermin, too ! oh,'blessed Mother, it makes my blood 
boil, and it seems as if my poor brain was turning !” 

By this time the afflicted sisters had reached the 
street, and went off together to their lodging-house, 
for their husbands had remained behind at the priest’s 
request, to receive some instructions which would 
have been too harrowing for them to hear. Martin 
O’Brien just then came in, and Father Sheehy told 
him with a smile : 

“Just in time, Martin, to hear my last will and 
testament.” 

O’Brien wrung his outstretched hand in silence, 
more eloquent than words could have been. 

“ When I shall have suffered the extreme penalty 
of the said he, laying a strong emphasis on the 


112 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


last word, “ you will bury all of this poor body that 
you may be able to obtain, in the old churchyard of 
Shandraghan. It is not, to be sure, where you would 
wish to lay my remains, but I bespoke my lodging 
there, some months ago. You will make my grave 
close by that old vault, under the shade of a gnarled 
elm which overhangs the spot. Tell Billy Griffith 
that his noble protection of a poor, persecuted priest 
will be remembered even in heaven, if I am so happy 
as to reach there, and that my blessing rests and 
shall rest upon him and his children. You will also 
give him this watch” (it was a large, old-fashioned 
silver one) — it is the only treasure I possess on earth, 
and I would fain send that excellent friend a token 
of my gratitude. Tell him to keep it for my sake, it is 
all I have to give him. To you, Thomas Burke, I 
give this silver snuff-box — and do you, Terence, keep 
this little ivory crucifix,” drawing forth one which 
he wore on his neck, “ but your legacy is only re- 
versional, my dear fellow,” he added with a melan- 
choly smile, “ for you are not to have it till after 
my death. Then you are to take possession, but I 
have worn it for many a year, and I cannot part with 
it while life remains. For you, Martin ! I have re- 
served my beads, which I value very highly, for they 
were given me when life was warm and young within 
me, by one of the professors in Louvain. My breviary 
and a few other books I have given to Father Doyle, 
and so I have already bequeathed aU my effects — 
my body to Shandraghan, and my soul to God, if He 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 113 

will deign to accept the offering. Not a word now 
— not a word !” he said, seeing that some of his lis- 
teners were about to speak. “ I’ll not hear a word 
spoken with such a doleful face as that. O’Brien !” 
he suddenly added, “ we had little thought of thu 
when discussing the matter on Arran Quay, as we 
walked along, looking down on the black, muddy 
Liffey. I know not what you might have thought, 
but for myself I can safely say that I never dreamed 
of such an end.” 

“ Truly,” interrupted Martin, endeavoring to 
speak in a cheerful tons, “ truly I must say. Father 
Nicholas! that I have always had a misgiving on 
my mind, ever since I heard the report of Bridge’s 
murder. That report is the unfortunate cause of 
this dreadful catastrophe.” 

“ Not at all, Martin — not at all,” replied the priest 
briskly, “the cause lies farther back, and may ^ be 
traced to the active part I took in getting the 
church-rates knocked off in a parish where tliey 
ought never to have been paid, seeing that it coH' 
tained not a single Protestant, and then in my 
encouraging the people to resist that novel and 
most unjust marriage-tax, these are the first causes ; 
this pretended murder of Bridge is but an adjunct 
of the main scheme, for if his disappearance had not 
furnished a weapon against me, they would have 
found another. My only grief is for poor Keating 
— God knows what is to become of him — and this 
unfortunate Meighan, who leaves so many helpless 


114 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


mourners behind him. But I trust God will pro- 
vide for them, since He sees fit to deprive them of 
their main support.” 

“ With regard to Mr. Keating,” interposed Burke, 
“ I hear he has been sent to Kilkenny jail, so that 
he’ll not be tried here.” 

“ Thank God for that same !” exclaimed Father 
Sheehy with fervor. “ He has, then, a much better 
chance of escape — I am truly rejoiced to hear that 
he is not to be tried in Clonmel. Should any of 
you ever see him again tell him how anxious I was 
about him, and that my prayers were continually 
offered up on his behalf, that God might reward his 
goodness even in this life by delivering him from 
the hands of his enemies.* You, Martin O’Brien, 
will pay a visit as soon as possible after to-morrow to 
Mr. Cornelius O’ Callaghan, and thank him for his 
kind and respectful treatment of me. Tell him how 
deeply grateful I was, and that I remembered his 
disinterested kindness to the last moment of my 
existence. I believe this is all,” and he looked 
around with a pleased expression of countenance, 
“ my wordly affairs are now arranged, and I am at 
full liberty to attend to ‘ the one thing needful’ — 

* It was fortunate for Mr. Keating that he was tried in Kil- 
kenny rather than Clonmel, for there the Orange faction was not 
so powerful, and the jury ’scouted the evidence brought against 
him, being chiefly the same miscreants who had prosecuted 
Father Sheehy. The consequence was that the injured gentle- 
man was honorably acquitted, and Father Sheehy ’s prediction 
verifled. 


I 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


115 


my final preparation for eternity. Father Doyle 
promised to come back this evening, and I hope to 
receive the adorable Sacrament to-morrow morning 
.for my viaticum. So now, my dear friends ! you 
will leave me to myself awhile — my soul mi^t needs 
prepare to meet the bridegroom and secure his 
approbation before he ascends the tribunal of judg- 
ment. God be with you till we meet again.*’ He 
then shook the hand of each in turn, and they quit- 
ted the prison in silent anguish. 

The cold, sharp wind of march — wild stormy 
March — was careering over the earth when on 
Saturday, the 15th of that month, Father Sheehy 
was brought out from his cell to undergo the mur- 
derer’s punishment. He was attended by his faith- 
ful friend and spiritual director. Father Doyle, and 
of the two the latter showed far more dejection than 
the prisoner — the felon. They came out on the lap- 
board in front of Clonmel jail, and there stood side 
by side, while one loud, long shout of sorrowful 
greeting arose from the assembled multitude. 
Sighs and groans were heard on every side, and 
many a convulsive sob even from the bosom of brave 
and stout-hearted men. 

“ Och ! then may the Lord prepare a place for you 
in the glory of heaven this day. Father Sheehy 
dear!” 

“ Ay, if he hadn’t been so thrue to us,” responded 
another, “ he wouldn’t be where he is this sorrowful 
mornin*. It’s because he always stood up for us 


116 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


that he’s brought to this untimely end ! The Lord 
be good an’ merciful to him as he was to us, any- 
how !” 

“ Och, then, your reverence ! won’t you give us 
all your blessin’, sure it’s the last time we can ask it 
of you, an’ sore hearts we have for that same.” 

Father Sheehy’s eyes filled with tears as he 
advanced to the front of the board, and raising his 
right hand made the sign of the cross over the 
heads of the crowd below. “ May the Almighty 
God, before whose judgment seat I am about to 
appear, bless and protect you all, and may he grant 
to each of you the graces of which you stand most 
in need ! — may He preserve you steadfastly in the 
true faith by which alone salvation is to be obtain- 
ed. I need scarcely tell you, my good people, that 
I die entirely innocent of the foul crime laid to my 
charge. As for those who have persecuted me even 
to death, and tl^e jury who condemned me on such 
evidence, I forgive and pity them all, and would not 
change place with any one of them for all the riches 
of the earth.* The care of my reputation I leave to 
my God — He will re-establish it in His own good 
time. In conclusion, I pray you all to retire quietly 
to your homes, and make no disturbance, for that 
would only give a pretext for fresh persecution.” 

He then shook hands with the priest, and begged 
to be remembered in his prayers, then calmly turned 
and made a signal to the hangman. That function- 
ary was prompt in his obedience — a moment and 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. lit 

the body of Father Sheehy swung in the air — ano- 
ther, and he had ceased to breathe — the pain of 
death was passed — Heaven in mercy had made it 
but momentary, and the wild scream that arose from 
the multitude below, loud and heart-piercing as it 
was, rolled away, unheard by him, and mingled 
with the boisterous wind that filled the air around. 

“ May the Lord God of Hosts have mercy on your 
soul, Nicholas Sheehy !” exclaimed Father Doyle, 
loud enough to be heard by the people in the street. 
“ He will not refuse you that justice which your 
fellow-men withheld from you. A melancholy death 
was yours, but your soul has, I trust, found favor 
before God, for you were indeed free from guile.” 

But all was not yet over. The body of the mar- 
tyred priest was cut down and taken away to undergo 
the remainder of the sentence — hanging was not 
enough for the brutal spirit of the Protestant ascend- 
ancy — the poor, lifeless frame was to be drawn and 
quartered; and while the task was being accom- 
plished, Edward Meighan was brought out on the 
lapboard. He, too, declared his innocence in the 
most positive terms, and offered up an affecting 
prayer for those who had sworn away his life — for 
the jury who had condemned him on their false tes- 
timony, and for the judge who had passed sentence 
upon him. He also repeated his solemn declaration 
of Father Sheehy’s innocence. 

“ Though I know,” said he, “ that he is already 
gone where I am soon to follow, but still it*s right 


118 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


to speak the thruth to the very last. That good 
priest has been put to death wrongfully, an’ whed 
they done it to him that was God’s own servant, 
they may well do it to me — poor, sinful man that I 
am — though, thanks to the great God, I’m as inno- 
cent of this murder as the child unborn. That’s all 
I have to say, only that I freely forgive all my ene 
mies, and pray God to have mercy on my soul, an 
the Blessed Virgin, an’ all the saints to pray for me, 
an’ for them I leave behind.” 

He was launched into eternity almost before the 
words were uttered — no, not quite so soon, for his 
sufferings were somewhat, longer than those of the 
priest,— for two or three minutes he struggled in the 
agony of his violent death, and then all was still- 
all, at least, save a low moaning sound that arose 
from under a neighboring gateway where old Atty 
Meighan and his miserable daughter-imlaw had 
taken refuge. A few of their neighbors and friends 
had gathered around them, and were bestowing 
upon them such consolation as they could ; but their 
words made little or no impression on the heart- 
broken sufferers, who could only sigh and moan, and 
look into each other’s eyes, and grasp each other’s 
hands in silence — their anguish was far too great for 
words, and not one tear did either shed. Their 
faces were pale — pale and haggard — ^their eyes 
wild and blood-shot, and the old man’s thin gray 
hair hung unheeded around his face, while poor 
Biddy’s fair tresses were scarcely concealed by the 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. * 119 

little linen cap that was their only covering, for the 
hood of her blue cloak had fallen back. Neither of 
the two had ventured to look out on the fearful 
scene just enacted, but they knew and felt that all 
was over, and that their main stay was gone— the 
cries of the appalled spectators had told them of the 
dreadful fact, and they felt as though utter darkness 
had fallen on the earth, and a crushing weight on their 
hearts. Poor, lonely mourners— that frail old man, 
tottering on the verge of the grave, and that young 
woman — the mother of three fatherless children — 
with her small, fair features shrunken and Wasted as 
though by the hand of disease — mortal disease. 
Poor old father, and poor heart-broken wife — the 
strong and vigorous arm that had supported them 
was now wrenched from them, and stiff in death, 
and the kindly heart that had loved them — oh, how 
well ! — was cold, cold and dead. And if he had died 
a natural death — if he had died with his friends 
around him, kneeling in prayer, and closed his eyes 
in peace, what would it have 'been — at least so they 
thought. At that moment no thought of consola- 
tion entered their minds, but afterwards, when time 
had somewhat dulled the acute anguish of that terri- 
ble day, they found comfort in the remembrance of 
his “ having had the priest.” “ Sure he died a good 
Christian, as he lived. Father Doyle had given him 
the rites o’ the Church, an’ the good God be praised 
for it, he died an innocent man. May the Lord be 
good and merciful to your soul, Ned Meighan.” 


120 • THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 

Such was the winding up of many a conversation 
amongst the friends and neighbors of the dead. 

The crowd was dispersed at the point of the bay- 
onet — the streets of the old town were again quiei 
and lonely-looking, and their silence was the silence 
of death, for the majority of the inhabitants had 
closed their houses in token of sympathy and respect 
for the innocent victims of unjust law. Everything 
wore an aspect of mourning, borrowed in part from 
the cold, cheerless weather, and the dim gray light 
that struggled through the dark masses of cloud 
which obscured the firmament. Such was the aspect 
of Clonmel when on that inauspicious evening, about 
an hour before sunset, a strange and ghastly specta- 
cle was presented to the eyes of those who passed 
by the prison. Over the arched porch of the old 
jail was hoisted on a pole the severed head of the 
ill-fated priest, the well-known features little changed, 
were it not for the unnatural purple hue diff’used 
over all — the natural effect of the fearful death which 
had parted soul and body. 

The Catholics who had occasion to pass that way 
hurried on with a shudder and murmured “Lord 
have mercy on him !” as they glanced at the dread- 
ful object over the gateway, but there were scores 
of hearts in Clonmel that evening that exulted in 
the “ day’s work done.” In many a tavern through 
the town there was merry-making and carousing, 
for the Orangemen held ‘ high holiday,’ and their 
leaders pledged each other in foaming tankards to 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


121 


the further success of the good cause, and the greater 
downfall of Pope and Popery. Many of them there 
were who were not ashamed to boast of having 
“ sent Sh6ehy to where he ought to be long ago.” 

“ Here’s may the ould fellow give him his warm- 
est corner,” said one big, burly Orangeman, as he 
tossed off his glass of “ the rale stuff” at the bar of 
the “Spread Eagle.” 

“ Ay ! an’ that all the priests in Ireland may soon 
get their due, as he got it — that’s the worst I wish 
them, Davy Robinson !” cried another,’ as he fol- 
lowed the other’s example, and swallowed his pota- 
tion, nothing loth, then laid down the capacious 
measure, and smacked his lips approvingly. 

And how all that faction did exult, and lord it 
over the prostrate Catholics, and boast that many 
more of them would share the fate of Sheehy and 
3Ieighan before all was over. “We have Keating 
fast enough,” would they say, “ and there’ll be more 
in for this same affair before the week’s over.” 

And it was too true, — only a few days had past 
when several other Catholics of respectable standing 
were arrested on the same charge, two of them being 
relatives of Father Sheehy. One of these, Roger 
>5heehy, was acquitted out of very shame, but was 
brought up again on a fresh accusation, a little while 
after. However, God saw fit to bring him unharmed 
out of the hands of his enemies Of the others, 
three were executed, viz., Edmund Sheehy, a second 
cousin of the priest, and a gentleman of excellent 


12^ 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


character, who left a wife and four young children 
to bewail his untimely end — also James Farrell and 
James Buxton, both of whom were men of educa 
tion and in good circumstances. Seven or eight 
others were tried and acquitted, evidently in ordei 
to save appearances, as they were nearly all bound 
over before they left the court to appear at an early 
day to answer sundry charges of high treason. 

*•*»**• 

Many years had rolled away, and still the head of 
Father Sheehy was bleaching over the porch of 
Glonmel jail, harrowing the hearts and souls of the 
people. Many applications had been made by his 
friends to have it removed, but all in vain, until 
more than twenty years had passed away since it 
was ^pisted there — grisly monument as it was, with 
its fleshless, bones and eyeless sockets, and the fear- 
ful associations clinging around it — memories of vile 
injustice, and gross perjury, and religious intole- 
rance, and cruel oppression. Oh yes, truly it was a 
mournful spectacle — the head of that martyred priest ; 
and, what made it more mournful still was the entire 
establishment of Father Sheehy ’s innocence only a 
few years after his execution, in direct fulfilment of 
his prediction. But by a special ordination of retri- 
butive justice, before that head was withdrawn from 
the public gaze, scarcely one individual who sat on 
Father Sheehy’s j^ry remained alive — all, or nearly 
all had been cut off by strange and sudden deaths— 
some of them died of diseases too loathsome to 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


123 


mention — one, in a state of raving madness, biting 
and gnawing his own flesh — another killed by a fall 
from his horse, and so on of all the rest, with only 
one or two exceptions.* As for the miserable wit- 
nesses who had sworn away so many innocent lives, 
their fate was just what might be expected. The 
wretched Moll Dunlea was killed by falling into a 
cellar in the city of Cork, while Lonergan flnished 
his ignoble career in that disgrace to Dublin — Bar- 
rack street — the victim of his own evil courses. 
Poor, poor wretch — he was still young in years 
when the measure of his iniquities was filled up, and 
the thread of his life was cut short by the avenging 
hand of God. 

It was seven years after the death of Father 
Sheehy when a native of Clogheen entered a tavern 
on the bleak coast of Newfoundland, in company 
with another person with whom he had been trans- 
acting some business, and they went in to have a 
friendly glass together before they parted. While 
they were sitting at a table, chatting over the bar- 
gain just concluded, and sipping at intervals their 
whiskey-punch, our Clogheen man suddenly fixed 
his eyes on the face of one who just then came 
into the shop. Starting from his seat, he darted 
forward and caught the new-comer by the breast : 

* This is all strictly true — throughout all the southern pro- 
vince the doom which fell on Father Sheehy’s jury is every- 
where known and talked of. 


124 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


“ Tell me, honest man !” he exclaimed, “ are you 
not from Tipperary, Ireland 

“ Why, then, indeed I am,” said the other, looking 
askance at his assailant, and endeavoring at the same 
time to shake off his grasp. 

“ Were you ever in Clogheen?” persisted Peter 
■Crowly, still holding him fast, and looking into his 
very eyes. 

“ Is it in Clogheen ? — oh, bedad, if I had a shillin’ 
for every time I was in it, it’s myself ’id be the rich 
man all out. Why, man alive, I was bred an’ born 
athin two or three miles o’ that same place.” 

“And your name?” asked Crowly, with a sort 
of convulsive trembling that indicated the deepest 
emotion. 

“ Why, one ’id think you were some lawyer or 
another — the way you go on wid your questions ; 
but if you want badly to know my name, sure it’s 
John Bridge — divil a hair I care who hears it.” 

“ I knew it ! I knew it the minnit I seen your face !” 
shouted Peter, as letting go his hold he dropped 
heavily on his seat, while Bridge stared on him in 
utter amazement, and the others who were present 
gathered eagerly around to learn the meaning of his 
strange conduct. . > . 

“What did you know, ahagur?^^ demanded Bridge 
in his own simple way, “ that is, if it’s no harm to 
.put the question.” 

“ I knew it was John Bridge that stood before me 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY, 


125 


— an’ only it was broad daylight I’d have taken you 
for a ghost.” 

“ Arrah, then, what in the world wide put that in 
your head ? Faith, dear, yourself looks as much like 
a dead man as I do. Ghost, indeed ! no more ghost 
than another, for the matther o’ that.” 

“ An’ how did you get here at all, or what made 
you lave home ?” inquired Crowly, making an effort 
to collect his thoughts. 

“Och, then, if you’re from Clogheen yourself,” 
returned Bridge, “ sure you can’t but know that. 
Didn’t I run away to Cork for fear o’ being taken 
an’ put in again for what you know, Faix I got 
enough o’ the law, for the very flesh was torn off 
my back, an’ all to make me swear agin them that 
was as innocent as the child in the cradle. Sure 
they wanted even to make me sware agin his rever- 
ence, Father Sheehy.” 

“ Ah, then, but that same goin’ away of yours was 
the unlucky move, all out, an’ the manes o’ many 
valuable lives bein’ taken away.” 

Why, Lord bless me ! how is that ?” demanded 
Bridge, his round bullet eyes dilating with intense 
curiosity; “how did that happen, or what do you 
mane at all ?” 

“Why just this,” said Crowly, with slow and 
solemn emphasis on every word, “just this — that 
there was a report got up that you were murdered, 
an’ no less than five men were hanged for that same. 
An’ listen here, John,” he added, lowering his voice 


126 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT. 


almost to a whisper, “ listeo here, Father Sheehy was 
one o’ the Jive /” 

An exclamation of horror escaped from every 
individual present, and Bridge reeled back against 
the wall, literally gasping for breath. 

Hanged ! — five men hanged for killin’ me ! and 
the •priest among the rest. Oh, Lord ! oh. Lord ! 
cross o’ Christ be about us !” and he made the sign 
of the cross on his forehead and chest. “ An’ the 
only one that ever hurted me was that vagabone 
that whipped me for the magisthrates. Och, och. 
Father Sheehy, dear, didn’t I go an’ get your 
blessin’ jist before I came away ; an’ sure you gave 
me a bright silver crown, though it’s not much you 
had to spare. Och, wirra ! toirra ! Arrah, then,” 
he suddenly asked of Crowly, “was there no one to 
go for’ad an’ prove that I wasn’t killed at all — sure 
didn’t I tell many a one that I was goin’ to lave the 
counthry, an’ the rayson why I did it, an’ all ?” 

“ Yes,” said Crowly, and the tears almost choked 
him, “yes, there was no less than three of them 
proved that, but their evidence wasn’t listened to, 
because they wanted to get poor Father Sheehy an’ 
the others out o’ the way, seein’ that they were 
Catholics, an’ well thought of by the people* If 
God doesn’t rain down vengeance on them all, root 
an’ branch, then I’ll say he’s not a just God , afther 
all !” 

“Is John Brien, the dancin’ master, living still?” 
inquired Bridge, when he had a little recovered the 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


127 


shock of these strange tidings — “ sure, if he’s a livin’ 
man, couldn’t he clear every one o’ them, if there 
wasn’t another but himself, for the very day before 
I left home, I told him in* private what I was goin’ 
to do, an’ bid him farewell, bekase I had a great 
regard for him.” 

“ Indeed, then, he is alive,” replied Crowly, “ or 
at least was then, for he proved on the table, in my 
own bearin’, just what you’re afther tellin’ me, but 
it was all no use. By the powers ! if St. Peter 
himself came down an’ proved Father Sheehy inno- 
cent his oath wouldn’t be b’lieved again Moll 
Dunlea’s or Jacky Lonergan’s. Well, boys, there’s 
no use in talkin’, but God’s above, an’ sees all that’s 
done— that’s one comfort.” 

And do you really mean to say,” asked the land- 
lord, who was a native of the United States, “ that 
five men were executed for the murder of this man 
here, whom I have known off and on for six or seven 
years — one of them a Catholic priest, too, in a Ca- 
tholic country like yours ?” 

“ It’s as true as the Gospel, Mr. Hunter,” replied* 
Crowly, “ an’ as for poor Father Sheehy, his headi 
was on a spike on the top of a long pole over the^ 
jail-gate the last time I was in Clonmel, an’ I sup- 
pose it’s there yet, whoever sees it.” 

“ W ell, I guess you wouldn’t catch me taking up* 
my quarters in such a country as that. If that is the- 
sort of law you have in Ireland, I wonder the people* 
don’t take it in hands, and make laws for themselves*”’ 


J28 THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 

“ So they do, sir, so they do, but only of late days. 
They’re beginnin’ to try an’ get justice for them- 
selves, when it won’t be given them. Sure that’s 
the rayson of all this Whiteboy work, an’ these 
night meetin’s an’ everything o’ that kind. The 
poor Catholics see plain enough that there’s nothing 
for them but the worst o’ thratement, an’ hangin’ 
them up like dogs for no rayson at all, only because 
they won’t give up their faith ; an’ as they can’t nor 
won’t do that, they must only combine together, an’ 
take the law into their own hands, when they can’t 
expect justice from them that’s set over them.” 

While the conversation went on in this strain, 
poor Bridge withdrew into a corner, blubbering 
and crying like a child, and wiping away his fast- 
falling tears with an old blue handkerchief which he 
took out of his hat. Every now and then he was 
heard muttering : “ An’ they hanged Father Sheehy, 
the black-hearted villains ! Och ! och ! then hadn’t he 
the hard heart all out that put a rope round his neck 
— him that was so good and kind to every one. Oh, 
wirral but I hope he’s happy anyway, for 

if he isn’t God help the world — that’s all / say ! 
•Och, wasn’t it quare, too, to hang them all for 
killin’ an’ me alive an’ well — sure it bates the 
■ divil.” 

“ True for you, John,” said Crowly, catching up 
his last words, “the ould boy himself couldn’t do a 
blacker deed — but I must jist go off now an’ write 
.home to the magistrates that I seen you here.” 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHT. 


129 


“ Oh ! for God’s sake, don’t !” cried the poor 
simple fellow — “ sure they tell me that I could be 
taken up h^re jist as well as if I was still in Ireland, 
on account of the place belonging to the king — so 
every one tells me, an’ if they knew I was here they’d 
be sendin’ aflher me, an’ I’d be hanged for bein’ a 
Whiteboy. Oh, faix I would !” 

“ But wouldn’t it be a thousand pities not to let 
them know that you’re alive ? Couldn’t you go to 
the States, man alive! and then there’d be no 
danger of you bein’ taken?” But nothing he could 
say would induce Bridge to consent, so great was 
his terror of the law^ and he seemed to be under the 
impression that he would not be safe anywhere, if it 
were known that he was alive. 

Mrs. Burke at length succeeded in obtaining pos- 
session of her brother’s head, or rather, skull, 
from the pole whereon for upwards of twenty years 
it had remained — the dreary sign-post of Clonmel 
jail. Many of the friends of the family accompanied 
her on this melancholy errand, and a box being pre- 
pared for the purpose, the head was conveyed to 
Shandraghan, and deposited in the coffin with the 
remains of its kindred body. And there may the 
grave of Father Sheehy still be seen, with its white 
tombstone, bearing the following inscription : 

“Here lieth the remains of the Rev. Nicholas 
Sheehy, parish priest of Shandraghan, Ballysheehan, 
and Templehenev. He died March 16th — 1166 aged 


130 


THE FATE OP FATHER SHEEHY. 


38 years. Erected by his sister, Catherine Burke, 
alias Sheehy.” 

I cannot better conclude this melancholy sketch 
than by quoting the words of Dr. Madden : “ Beside 
the ruins of the old Church of Shandraghan,the grave 
of Father Sheehy is distinguished by the beaten path, 
which reminds us of the hold which his memory has 
to this day on the affections of the people. The in- 
scriptions on the adjoining tombs are effaced by the 
footsteps of the pilgrims, who stand over his grave, 
not rarely or at stated festivals, but day after day, 
as I was informed on the spot, while the neglected 
tomb of the proud persecutor, William Bagwell, lies 
at a little distance unhonored and unnoticed by them.” 

And such is actually the case — the power of the 
Orange faction has passed away forever — the days 
of the Protestant ascendancy are with those beyond 
the flood — the memory of the functionaries who so 
unjustly wielded their power is branded with oppro- 
brium, and their names are only remembered at all 
to be used as bywords of reproach and execration, 
while that of Father Sheehy is enshrined in the 
inmost hearts of the people, and is ever music to 
their ears. It only remains for us to thank heaven 
that Tipperary in 1850* has seen the glorious revival 
of Catholic splendor, and that the Synod of Thurles 
has redeemed the glory of that good, old, faithful 
county, where the national religion was so oppressed 
and trampled on, and its children go cruelly perse- 
cuted nighty Years Ago. 

* This was written in 1851. 


TSE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


131 


The following stanzas, translated from the Irish, 
have been kindly sent us from Worcester, Massa- 
chusetts. Hoping that they may not be uninterest- 
ing to those who have been following “ The Fate of 
Father Sheehy” in our columns, we give them 
almost verbatim. The translation was made, our 
correspondent states, by a member of the family of 
the lamented Father Sheehy, It seems that his 
sister, almost bereft of reason, had been watch- 
ing for twenty years the mouldering head of her 
martyred brother which stood on a high pole in 
front of Clonmel jail. Many applications had been 
made to have the head removed, but in vain. At 
the end of that long period of time the devoted 
sister succeeded in stealing the head by night whilst 
a raging storm kept the sentries in the shelter of 
their boxes. So the story goes in Tipperary, and 
on it these verses appear to have been founded. As 
the friend to whom we are indebted for them justly 
remarks, “they must have been touchingly sweet 
and mournful in the grand old tongue of our Celtic 
sires.” 

TO FATHER SHEEHY S HEAD — FOR TWENTY YEARS EXPOSED 
IN FRONT OP CLONMEL JAIL. 

Head of the martyr’d priest, I now can hold thee f 
Thus to my lips, and to my heart I fold thee ! 

On Clonmel’s gates, while soldiers lay a-dreaming 
I watch’d the fatal spike thro’ darkness gleaming. 

Martyr’d to Erin’s cause by men unholy. 

Martyr’d like Christ his Lord for justice solely, 


132 


THE FATE OF FATHER SHEEHY. 


Dark doom of grief to many a mofher’s daughter, 

From Knockmaoldown to Shannon’s wide-spread water. 

From Shannon of the ships and all its holy islands, 

To Cashel of the Kings and its diocese of highlands-, — f 
Cork of the ancient sword and pointed arrow — if 
And coppa ma chree of the mound of sorrow — ^ 

And where are they, dear head ! that once reviled thee 7— 
Who spiked thee high and with filthy pitch defiled thee 1— 
All pray’rs for pity spurn’d, scoff’d, and slighted — 

They crush’d my heart, and left me old and blighted. 

Sure of their doom, some died in madness, yelliug|| 

Of Sheeby’s quarter’d corpse, of Hell’s dark dwelling ; 

And some, oh righteous God ! impious and daring, 

Pour’d forth their curs’d lives and died despairing. 

■f Munster was called of old the “ Highlands of Ireland.” 
Brien Boroimhe’s sword and arrow are deposited in th 4 
museum of that city, where they may still be seen. 

^ This seems to have reference to the place of his sepulture. 
His remains lie in Shandraghan churchyard, fourteen miles 
west of Clonmel, near the borders of the county Cork. 

II Maude, of Dundrum, and one of the Bagwells of Clonmel, 
both died mad. 


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